


New Skin

by Bayerick



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Gen, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Smut, au where silencer is not champion of cyrodiil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-01-16 09:12:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 40,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12339744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bayerick/pseuds/Bayerick
Summary: Twenty men are murdered in one night in the criminal district of Cheydinhal, and of course, the Dark Brotherhood takes notice. In short, this is the tale of a doomed Speaker, a determined assassin, and the circumstances that brought them together. (WILL BE CONTINUED, AUTHOR IS JUST SUPER BUSY)





	1. Introductions

Word travels fast among the Dark Brotherhood; it is said that it is like a hand, so why would there not be veins within it, transporting information like blood swells on a cut? Double that speed, and that is the quickness with which the mass murder of a smuggling ring well known in the Cheydinhal criminal district was known. Of course, the Night Mother and the Dread Father himself knew as soon as the acts were committed, but this was no contracted kill, no previously specified act of violence. This was a dark act fed by years and years of hidden bloodlust and agony, one could speculate, and it was so.

Over twenty men killed in a night as black as the Void itself, guards and smugglers alike, dispatched with clean and quick brutality. Only one man, so the rumors said, was killed with a passionate fervor the likes of which had rarely been seen. Decimus Abelus Agrius, an Imperial with a crooked smile and a crooked heart, smuggler and slave-driver second only to the head of the smugglers, was left absolutely mutilated. Only one stab wound to the chest, but--this was where those who told tales of the murder would drop their voices in shock and horror--his head was entirely flayed and stripped, and he was left without a tongue; his mouth destroyed so that it looked more like a toothless, bloody cavern than something belonging to a human.

 _“Monstrous,”_ the residents of Cheydinhal would murmur, and clutch their robes in shock. _“A true demon must live in this town, to have done all that in a single night.”_

One could say that they were correct, in a sense.

Of course, with such a dastardly act abound in the very town in which the Brotherhood lived would seem to be cause for a scurrying to recruit the criminal. The Cheydinhal sanctuary was practically alight with the question of “who would it be?” Who indeed committed the lives of at least twenty known to Sithis in one eve? It was natural for rumor to attract the attention of the initiates, but for it to pass from them all the way to the slayers, to the executor Vicente Valtieri, and to the Speaker himself, Lucien Lachance? It seemed a crime with no parallel, at least none recent. And when the Speaker himself was called by the other members of the Black Hand to recruit the perpetrator, he agreed, readily and without a second thought. He was not a pious man, but with this--surely Sithis himself was giving the Cheydinhal Sanctuary a gift, a chance to reinvent itself. Ungolim gave him the name of one “Severyn Ulasi” apparently holed up in the West Weald Inn, so said the Night Mother, and Lucien prepared himself accordingly.

Lucien Lachance left for Skingrad at daybreak three days after the murder, pleased to know that a possible future member of his Sanctuary is enough to spread such infamy like wildfire. But as he rode Shadowmere through the chill of Western Cyrodiil, past the flooded riverside estates of Bravil and around the impressive steeples of the Imperial City, there was a small amount of doubt within him; _what if this murderer refused to join him and his brethren? What if the amount of blood spilled at the smuggling hideaway was testament to the killer’s unruliness?_ _No, but that can’t be,_ he thought, conviction overcoming any uncertainty in his heart. If he succeeded, he succeeded, and if not, such was the will of Sithis. _Plus,_ he added, _the vast majority of the victims within that house were dispatched with such efficacy_ , and he doubted that a killer so ruled by disorder could do that. Whatever the end result, he wanted to meet whoever was capable of such an act, and if they could be brought to work for the Black Hand and the Brotherhood, so much the better. He spurred Shadowmere onwards and did not look back, only towards the future of his Family.

When he finally arrived in the city, it had begun to rain heavily--fat drops of water falling from the sky as if they had no other purpose but to drench him and his horse. The sky, which had dimmed on his way, now was near pitch black with nightfall and the promise of more storms to come. If he was not so focused, he would have thought it poetic to have such darkness on a day when he recruits a perpetrator of a heinous deed. Lucien pulled up the hood of his dark cloak and stabled Shadowmere outside the city gates, leaving her with a well-paid stable-hand who never saw his face, of course. Without fanfare, he entered the city, and though he was outwardly as calm as ever, something inside him flared with anticipation. It had been a while since he’d carried out a recruitment mission as important as this one.

Skingrad was familiar territory to him, having ordered a multitude of contracts to take place within this city. Perhaps it was the vineyards outside the walls, that their air would cause drunkenness in the citizens, but there was always something he found lavish and hedonistic about the place. It appealed to a dark side of him, the side that was tempted by human pleasures almost as much as the pleasures of the Void. Lucien knew he could not partake in many of the luxuries this city had to offer; he had a job to do and a rather important one, at that. But as dark as the skies were, it was still relatively early in the evening. Perhaps he would surprise the possible recruit by stealing into their room late at night, as it was one of his favorite ways to intimidate a newcomer to the Brotherhood. Since he did have time, maybe he would spend it indulgently. Yes, the Speaker decided, a small smile unfurling on his face. The fact that he was given this chance was cause for celebration enough. With that he stole into a small inn near the city centre, cloaked in the shadow of the evening. Perhaps he’d nurse a glass of Surilies for the rest of the night, as a small pleasure and to calm his mounting nerves.

It was late when he finally exited the seedy inn, after consuming a small cup of Skingrad’s finest wine. He did not want to damage his will or sobriety overly, of course, with such a responsibility on his shoulders. But the alcohol seemed to have settled him somewhat, and the pinching worry of the enlistment not working to his favor had dissipated as well. Now he was (mostly) clear-headed and dare he think it, eager, if only to meet the soul who had sent so many to the Void in such an intriguing manner. The West Weald Inn’s doors would open without question to his cloaked form-- as he looked not unlike a traveller-- but they would open easier if a chameleon spell was cast on himself first. So he did, murmuring a brief incantation before slipping through the doors to the inn, and then to its private quarters. Like a cold and errant wind, he breezed through the rooms until he finds the one on the very end, where the murderer was said to be sleeping. This was the first time he had so little information on a target, due to the short notice. He assumed them to be Dunmeri from their name, of course, but otherwise he didn’t know a thing. Obviously they were skilled with a knife and were stealthy as midnight to go unnoticed in their crimes, but their gender? Their age? All except their name was unknown, and it made the whole thing sort of exciting, he thought. Though it wasn’t a kill, he felt the telltale rush of adrenaline flood his body as he entered the dark room, lit barely by candles from outside.

Lucien could see a bed, and a vague shape within it, but not much else. He moved quickly and purposefully towards the side of the bed, closing the door to the room behind him. Taking a deep breath, he looked down at the shadowy figure wrapped up in heavy blankets, and waited. It didn’t often take long for them to wake at his presence.

“You sleep rather soundly for a murderer,” he said, voice silk-smooth and low.

There was a sudden movement, a shiver from the bed, and a lithe shadow sat up from it, seeming to immediately take note of the shape that was Lucien. A small bit of fire magic appeared from the shadow, illuminating the dark grey hand that cast it, and the little flame flickered over to a handheld candelabra on the bedside table. The three candles within flared to life, and in sudden detail, Lucien Lachance saw the face of Severyn Ulasi. Needless to say, they really weren’t who he expected.

A thirty-or-so year old Dunmer woman was sitting ramrod-straight in her bed, wearing only a loose tunic and an inscrutable look upon her face. She looked to be a few inches shorter than he, and of a slighter build. Long silver-white hair, mussed with sleep, came to her shoulder-blades, and she moved it out of her face, languidly. She was looking at the Speaker as if he was a mere specter, dark red eyes piercing through him, and frankly, it set him on edge a bit. Yet, all of those things came second to Lucien’s mind, as the most remarkable thing about the woman across from him was the severe scarring around her mouth. Arching down from above her upper lips and down her chin and jaw were several scars that looked as if they had come from a rather shaky knife, extending the corners of her mouth slightly before crossing like lightning, upwards. They were white as bone, long healed but still pale in the firelight.

Was this truly the one who had killed twenty or more men in one night, and took the whole of Cheydinhal by storm? A woman who looked like a stray wind could knock her down? Lucien couldn’t believe it, but he had been mistaken before.

It seemed like the Dunmer could sense his uncertainty, and her lips parted as if to make a comment, but thought better of it. Lachance continued to speak, casually, but with the cool edge of a seasoned assassin to his voice.

“You'll need a clear conscience for what I'm about to propose.” he said. At that, the woman quirked an eyebrow but said nothing, merely waiting for him to proceed. He really wasn’t expecting to be met with...such a lack of response. Fury at being tracked down, or fear perhaps, but not _nothing_. This was astoundingly new.

“You prefer silence, then? As do I. For is silence not the symphony of death, the orchestration of Sithis himself? Ironic, then, that I come to you now as Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood. My name is Lucien Lachance, and my voice is the will of the Night Mother. She's been watching you.”

Severyn nodded, eyes no longer looking through Lucien but straight at him, raptly attentive.

“She has been observing as you kill, admiring as you end life without pity or remorse. The Night Mother is most pleased. That is why I stand here before you. I bear an offering.”

Lucien paused, initially for emphasis, but was surprised when Severyn spoke out in a low voice. 

“The Dark Brotherhood of legend wishes…to recruit me?” The woman sounded bemused. “Me, of all people?”

Her speech was affected and somewhat unclear at first listen whether due to the scarring or something else the Speaker could not tell. It took him a few moments to understand her, but Lucien soon became accustomed to her way of speaking. 

“You doubt yourself? I told you that the Night Mother finds your deathcraft immeasurably pleasing.”

“I do not doubt my work, nor the forces beyond my control that led you here,” Severyn replied, carefully, certain one wrong word could mean her death at the hands of this surely capable assassin.  “I am merely surprised.”

Severyn was silent for a few seconds, ruminating upon the idea that she would be called to action by the Brotherhood. Abruptly, though, she spoke again.

“How quickly I forget my manners. I apologize for interrupting you. If you please, continue. I would like to hear about this offering.”

At her words, his lips quirked. How very polite. He couldn’t help but poke fun at her courtesy.

“I find your etiquette...refreshing.” he said, and the Dunmer ducked her head quickly, demure and a bit embarrassed. Lucien stifled a chuckle, but continued.

“Listen closely. At the Inn of Ill Omen in Bravil, you will find a man named Rufio. Kill him, and your initiation into the Dark Brotherhood will be complete. Do this, and the next time you sleep in a location I deem secure, I will reveal myself once more, bearing the love of your new family.”

Something in the woman’s eyes flickered with pained emotion as he spoke of the love his guild would carry for her, as if his words alone had injured her, but as soon as Lucien saw it, it was gone. Severyn inhaled slowly and steadily, and responded in a measured tone.

“You wish me to kill Rufio, and then when next I rest, you will initiate me into the Dark Brotherhood? If you already know of my work, why bother with this contract?”

“Think of it not as an initiation, but as more of a ceremony,” Lucien said. “Your deeds already bear witness to your abilities.”

As he said this, he saw a small, proud smile appear on her face.

“With the killing of Rufio, you will fully join the ranks of our dark family.”

Severyn nodded. “Is there some way you would have me dispatch the man?”

Lucien paused and stroked his jaw, thoughtfully. She was thorough, and that in itself was promising.

“Not necessarily, but if you wish, use this. Consider it a token from the Brotherhood.” He presented from his cloak an ornate silver dagger, blade glistening in the light of the candles, and extended his hand for Severyn to take it. The woman cautiously reached out for it, and her thin fingers brushed his, very slightly, as he relinquished the knife. His hand buzzed with energy, suddenly, something electrifying and intangible. Perhaps an after-effect of the magic she used, he thought, and intended to give it no further thought.

Severyn turned the dagger over in her palm as she received it, inspecting the intricate designs on the hilt appreciatively.

“It’s beautiful,” she finally spoke, voice quietly awed as she ran a finger down the blade—not quite hard enough to draw blood but enough to gauge its mettle.

“It is a virgin blade, and lusts for blood. May it serve you well.” Lucien said, and he had to admit, the dagger was a lovely specimen. That sort was a common gift to aspiring assassins during their first recruitment--if the promise of murder did not inspire them, then a trinket such as this generally did.

“But I assume you already are aware of my prowess with a knife.” Severyn said, a minute touch of confidence creeping into her voice. How could he forget the vision of the Imperial man’s flayed head, skin separated so neatly from bone and muscle? It was truly artistic.

“We are aware, yes.” Lucien responded, and felt it was an understatement. “And if you accept our opportunity, I would enjoy discussing your...prior achievements...when you are initiated. But for now, the Brotherhood must know you can be trusted.”

“Of course. Consider it done, Speaker,” Severyn murmured, carefully testing out the new honorific as if it were a blade itself. Was she already willing to address him with such respect? “I look forward to seeing you again, when the task is complete.”

“Good, good,” the man said, smoothly. “Then we shall meet again, Severyn Ulasi.”

“Until then, Speaker.” She bowed her head slightly,  reverently, and Lucien Lachance was soon gone as he came, slipping into the dark.

Though Lucien said he would come to her at night, he may have lied a little. The truth of this initiation--the real and honest truth, so said every Speaker who ran a recruitment mission-- was to watch their prospective protege kill and to get a handle on their personality, their style of bloodshed. Severyn of course would not be aware, as he would stay a distance away from the murder scene-- enough to watch, but not enough to intervene. How would she maim such a pathetic creature like Rufio, he wondered. He would have to see.


	2. The Murders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter of New Skin. Sorry for the long wait; college is kicking my ass. I'll try to update more often--for some reason I'm not as pleased with this chapter, but I felt it had to get done. Next chapter hopefully will be better!!

Lucien tracked her path to Bravil over the course of a few days; the others in the Black Hand gave him leave to scope out his protege’s skills-- as they often did so themselves. When he relayed his encounter to the other members, their interests were piqued. He saw his own interest in the prospective assassin reflected in their eyes, and it was enough to will him forward in his recruitment.

And so he found himself on horseback yet again, following the tracks laid before him by Severyn and her borrowed steed. The damp of the marshlands beckoned as he turned southward, urging Shadowmere forward through the forests of Cyrodiil. His hands clutched at her reins even as the horses steered him off the Gold Road and into the Green, where the lush scent of decaying plant matter met his nostrils. It was a familiar smell; Cheydinhal too possessed the tendency for rot, considering its closeness to the Corbolo River. But here, as he approached the forests and swamps that preceded Bravil, it was much deeper, much more intoxicating. It brought back distant memories of his first trips to the bay city, the stone face of the Lucky Old Lady’s statue looming over the dark and rickety buildings, sunsets red as blood glinting off the Larsius river that always threatened to spill over.

Lucien followed the hoof-prints Severyn had left in the loam, all the way to the inn where her contract lay in sickly wait. He saw her there, tucked into the shadow of the unassuming building, wrapped in a burlap cloak. It was late evening, and the stars were just beginning to peek out from the clouds when she entered the inn. Pressing close to the poorly-paned windows, he watched diligently, waited for the show to begin.

She opened the wooden door to the Inn of Ill Omen, letting it close softly behind her as she strode into the inn’s main room. With a scarf pulled over her face to avoid showing her scars and a traveling cloak wrapped over her shoulders, she looked like any Dunmer traveller passing through the Green Road. Severyn plucked out a coin purse and rummaged through it, looking at the man behind the oaken counter.

“Do you have a room for rent on this evening?” she asked.

“We do, for ten septims. It isn’t all that well furnished, but you don’t look like the type to complain.”

Severyn snorted, a bit derisive. “No, it’s no problem. For ten septims, it’s not a problem at all.”

“Good. It’s the first on the left, up the stairs.”

She placed ten septims on the counter, and paused. “Could I trouble you for a glass of water, though? I’ve had a long journey, and my throat is parched.”

“Sure, sure,” the innkeeper said. “I’ve a fresh barrel in the back room. Let me get you a tankard.” He rushed out after pocketing the septims, and the telltale sound of liquid being sloshed into a cup was audible from the main room of the tavern. Severyn chewed at her scarred lip absently, and called out to the man.

“Do you get many customers out here on the road?”

“No, no,” the innkeeper responded as he re-entered, a tall tankard of fresh water in his grasp and a rueful smile on his face. “Fact is, you’re the only one here besides old Rufio. The last tenant I had left a few days ago--Minerva, her name was. She’ll be back, though, she always is. Most travellers tend to wait until Bravil for lodging, or they go to Faregyl Inn in the Northeast.”

“I see,” Severyn replied, taking a careful sip of her water and rolling it around in her mouth. It was fresher than the stuff she had in her canteen over the days she had been travelling, and she savored the cleanliness of it. “So it’s only us, then.”

“Only you and me, yep. My name’s Manheim. Manheim Maulhand. If you need anything during your stay, you can always call on me down here in the bar.” Manheim gave Severyn a bow of his head. She quirked an eyebrow, but inclined her own head in response.

“Thanks for the water,” she said, raising the tankard. “I’ll be in my room.”

“Have a pleasant night,” the innkeeper replied, and Severyn ascended the stairs with a swish of her travelling cloak.

 

The room offered to her was small and rather dark, with only a bedroll for furnishing, but she was not here for a long stay. Rufio would die during the night, and as soon as dawn showed above the treetops, she would leave the inn without anyone the wiser.

Severyn summoned a small ball of light with a flick of her fingers, and removed a small pouch from a leather knapsack she kept tied to her back. The golden gleam of her magelight illuminated a few herbs and a few near-empty vials within the pouch, and at the sight, she scowled.

“Out of monkshood again?” she muttered to herself, rolling her eyes. It was her plan, originally, to drip poison in Rufio’s ear as he slept; a concoction of monkshood would slow his heart enough to kill him. If that wasn’t enough, the plant would lead him to look sick with a terrible stomach ache if left in his ale or water. The combination of an already sickly constitution with aconite poisoning would surely kill the man.

But now, her plans were dashed. How absolutely stupid of her; not days ago she was recruited by the Dark Brotherhood, she was likely being watched by one of them as she planned her assassination, and now of all times, she had to improvise a death? Damned bad luck, she thought, bitterly.

Severyn hadn’t had enough time to gather any monkshood on the way to the inn, and as night had already fallen, she felt it would be useless to go out. Her hand slipped to the newly received dagger sheathed at her hip, and she traced the intricate silver filigree on its hilt. Severyn pulled it gently from its resting place.

“A virgin blade, he said. And I shall test its mettle tonight, it seems.” It would do for tonight. Rufio’s death would be far more elegant than his status deserved, and it would be much bloodier, much more suspicious than a monkshood poisoning. Severyn would be safe as long as she avoided getting caught leaving the inn.

“Perhaps it would be even more prudent of me to leave as soon as the murder is committed,” she considered, turning over the silvery Blade of Woe in her hands. The bedroll and the sturdy roof above it looked less appealing when compared to the safety of not being jailed for murder.

Severyn sighed heavily. Another night spent under the stars awaited her, it seemed, and she was immediately prepared to resign herself to it. But suddenly, unbidden, a dark idea sprung from the deep wells of her mind, as if planted there by Sithis himself.

There wasn’t anyone else in the inn besides Rufio and the innkeeper, Manheim Maulhand. Severyn smiled a bit wickedly in remembrance of this fact, but also in relief. She wouldn’t have to camp tonight, not if Rufio wasn’t the only one killed. If she dispatched of Manheim as well, there would be no one to prattle to the guards or find any evidence of her stay for a few days, at least.

“Well, then,” she murmured to herself, pleased. “This night is certainly shaping up.”

 

Severyn waited until the night wholly fell to commit the murders, a time when the stars stood out against the cold void of the sky. Her hand rested on the hilt of the Blade of Woe, fingertips twitching with anticipation. With the deaths of the innkeep and the sickly tenant, she would be accepted with open arms into the Dark Brotherhood, a door opening into a new stage of her life.

Though Severyn kept a calm exterior, her heart beat with adrenaline. Like a ghost, she slipped down the inn’s ill-kept stairs, taking care not to make a sound.

In the candlelit main room, she found Manheim Maulhand soundly asleep, breath rising and falling under the covers of a humble bed. The shadows of the flickering light cast sharp angles upon the Nord’s face, and she paused. It would be simple, she thought; she could suffocate him with his own pillow, perhaps. Slice his throat with her new blade, let him bleed out on his bedsheets.

Severyn drew her knife and approached the sleeping innkeeper silently, until she loomed over him, her normally slight form blending with the night’s shadows. Her eyes closed for but a moment, as she inhaled deeply, readying herself. The Blade of Woe glinted in the candlelight like a black jewel, and Severyn took in the final moments of its virgin status, clean of blood and viscera--running a lithe finger over the flat of the dagger.

It all starts here, she thought, and sudden serenity filled her.

 

Severyn drove the sharp blade directly into Manheim’s right eye, breaking the thin bone of the socket and into the brain. The poor fool jolted once, then twice--breath gurgling and his good eye rolling wildly. His hands reached out like talons clutching at her robes, aimless and desperate, but she batted them away effortlessly.

Lines of blood rushed from his skull over his chiseled face and neck, ruby rivulets tracing intricate patterns on his skin. Again and again, she drove the knife deeper until his movements stilled, until blood soaked his pillow. It took three strikes for his breath to rattle through him, a dead man’s gasp. Her hands were wet with deep crimson, a few splatters on her face from the initial attack--she wiped the mess away with a sleeve and took in her handiwork.

Manheim Maulhand laid motionless, fingers stretched into claws that couldn’t quite grasp, legs half bent in an attempt to kick his assailant off of him.

“Perfect,” she finally murmured, and plucked the ring of keys that led to Rufio’s room off of the corpse.

Rufio, as she had been told, lay in bed with a fever. Severyn assumed that in his delirious state, he would not notice her entry into his chamber, nor his killing, if she was lucky.  
She stole into his room as she had with Maulhand, and stood over the sickly man’s bedside. With no ceremony this time, as the blade had already been christened, she slashed Rufio’s throat in a clean arc, splattering blood on the wall behind her in a vibrant, vermillion display. His skin ripped like paper as the sharp black blade pierced it, and Severyn marveled at its ease.

It didn’t take long for him to pass into Oblivion. Rufio died quickly from the loss of blood, trembling and gurgling much in the same way his predecessor had. The deep red fluid leaked into the floorboards and into the soil below the Inn of Ill Omen, and as it did so, the adrenaline of the night’s events ebbed away.

Soon, Severyn was left standing in the moonlight cascading in through Rufio’s chamber window, exhausted. The deed was done, and the Inn was now devoid of anyone who could report her to the authorities. She breathed in the oily scent of spilled blood as she opened the room next to Rufio’s, finding a clean made bed before her. Relief passed through her along with the strong desire to sleep, and she shed her bloodied robes on the floor--she would clean them up the next morning, along with any evidence that she had spent the night.

When her head hit the pillow, the sweet darkness of sleep enveloped her. She did not see a black cloaked figure drift into her room, like an unseasonable wind. Again, he stood, a dark sentinel before her bed, and waited.


	3. The Overview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 of New Skin written in a midnight writing frenzy. Somehow I feel better about this chapter than the previous one which took WAY longer to write.

Severyn woke with a start after only sleeping for a few minutes—at least she thought it had been a few minutes. Killing always took energy out of her; stabbing and knife-work especially. The grogginess she felt now reminded her of how she felt on the day after killing the smugglers. Absolutely, horrendously exhausted. But, the chill in the air demanded her attention, as did the man in front of her cloaked in the night. Within the darkness, she saw a prominent nose and olive skin. The speaker who had visited her not days before was at her bedside and she—well, she, not thinking, had left her blood-soaked robes several feet away from her. All of them, in fact.

A sense of visceral unease overtook her. It was never good to be so vulnerable in front of a prospective employer, much less one who was staring directly into her face in the starlight. To be laid naked—especially in the truest sense—was never good when one worked as an assassin.

Severyn straightened, pulled her blankets up to neck height and prayed to all the Divines that he hadn’t seen anything untoward.

“Well played,” the man purred, and clapped his hands twice in appreciation. “Sithis and the Night Mother will undoubtedly be pleased with your work. “

  
“I’m honored, Speaker,” she managed, still attempting to gain some semblance of consciousness. “Was the act to your liking?”

  
Lucien seemed a bit startled at her question and the unease sparked again in Severyn’s stomach. Had she said something wrong? Was it imprudent to address the Speaker’s feeling towards a murder instead of the ethereal beings that commanded it?

Lucien Lachance’s expression changed, though, and what she could read of it—he was mollified. Definitely, somehow mollified by her words. He paused.

  
“Your deathcraft was indeed to my liking. Very efficient, and yet artistic. I was surprised, though, by your acts tonight.”

  
“Am I correct to assume that you mean the killing of the innkeep?”

  
“Precisely,” The Speaker said, and sat on the edge of Severyn’s bed. Though it was a casual gesture, the man was as poised as ever; a snake coiled and ready to strike at a moment’s provocation. “Why did you kill him? You were not asked to.”

“Forgive me, Speaker, if I have committed an unnecessary act. If you deem punishment in order, I will undergo what you demand.” Severyn bowed her head and averted her eyes quickly, a mortified flush spreading over her sharp features.

  
“I felt there would be too much risk if Rufus was killed in an overly violent manner and another man was left to tell of it to the guards. I thought that the Dark Brotherhood would be endangered if a witness was left—I only wished to cover my tracks to protect your order. Once again, I sincerely apologize.”

Lucien stroked his stubbled jaw, eyebrows raised as he listened to her.

  
“Why did you not choose a more silent method of killing, then, if you were worried you would be found out?”

  
Severyn did not raise her eyes from the blankets, and clutched them in her fingers.

  
“My original plans were spoiled. I had intended to give Rufio a poison made of monkshood, dripped in his ear to cause damage to the brain. That or stir a concentrated dose into his water or ale. If he drank of it, he would become sick to his stomach and die of the dehydration that....that would follow his attempted expulsion of the poison.”

“So you had to improvise a death, and in doing so, christened the blade I gave you in both men’s lifeblood.”

“I did. Please forgive me, Speaker, if I was out of line.” Her head bowed lower, if that was even possible, and her silver white hair pooled on the bed below her.

There was a silence between the two of them, tense and taut like a bowstring.  
But then, something happened that Severyn did not expect.

The man at the edge of her bed chuckled, a rough, low sound that sent an equally unexpected frisson of electricity down her spine. It was not a cold chuckle, something she would have let slip before she murdered an unaware victim, but one of warm, rich mirth. She chanced a peek through her long hair at the cloaked man, the moonlight dancing off his features. Like an ocean tide, the laugh grew in intensity for a few brief moments, shaking the man’s shoulders. And then, it was over.

“Severyn Ulasi, you are so careful, so thorough. The Brotherhood will gladly take you as one of its dark siblings.”

  
“Speaker, I do not understand—“ Severyn looked up in shock, and saw Lucien’s dark eyes only just crinkling at the edges.

“It was a test, my sister. An assassin such as you would always have poison on your person. Did you not wonder why you were so unprepared for this contract?” The man put a hand inside his black robes, and pulled out three vials of thin lilac-colored liquid, as well as a small bundle of dried purple blossoms. Monkshood? The woman’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“I took your poison and your ingredients when I left you on the first night we met. My intuition—that and what the Brotherhood told me of you—said that you were experienced in alchemy. I left you only with the dagger I previously entrusted unto you.”

“This was all a test, then?” Severyn murmured, stupefied.

“A test of your ability to think under duress. A test of your improvisational skills, and your creativity. All necessary parts an assassin must utilize to carry out a contract.”

  
“I....see. So then—am I not in trouble? With you? With the Brotherhood?”

He smirked and again Severyn turned red, though for a different reason than before, she thought.

  
“Ah, no, not in the least, my dear sister. Though your.... supplication...was pleasing to my ear, and I’m sure our Dread Father and Mother took pleasure in your dedication as well. You passed. You are one of us.”

Severyn let out a sigh she wasn’t sure she had been holding. Relief flooded through her like the adrenaline she felt during kills.

  
“Severyn Ulasi, I would have you meet your Dark Family before we send you on any contracts. If you would,” Lucien said, and it was not a request but a thinly veiled demand. He stood from her bed, cloak swishing as he did. “Meet us at the Abandoned House in Cheydinhal. You know this city well— the house is the one near the Chapel of Arkay. The door to our Sanctuary is locked with an enchantment; it will ask you a question, and you will need the passphrase to enter.”

“May I ask the answer, then?”

  
“Answer the door’s query with ‘Sanguine, my brother,’ and it will let you in.”

“Will I find you there, Speaker?”

The similar startled look Severyn had seen earlier was present again on his face. It made him look younger, somehow. Less serious.

“Perhaps,” he mused. “I keep odd hours. You will likely meet the Executioner in my stead. His name is Vicente Valtieri, and he will attend to your questions about the Brotherhood, if you have any—and I assume you will.”

“I see,” the woman responded, and pondered his response. “I do hope we meet again, though. I feel as if I owe you for inducting me into your order.”

Though the words were generally true, something rang false within them. Was there another reason she wished to see him there, something she couldn’t parse out?

“It may not be soon, but you will see me again, my dear sister.” Lucien said, and it could have been a hint of reassurance in his voice, or simply Severyn’s utter exhaustion from the night’s frantic events.

“Al—alright,” she said, finally, stifling an ill-placed yawn. “I’ll head out at dawn, then.”

  
“Take all the time you need, Severyn Ulasi. Your new family awaits with open arms, and it seems you need a modicum of rest before you would embark to meet them.” Lucien gave her a slightly amused glance at her tired state, and began walking away from her bedchamber.

With a sweeping movement of his cloak, his form blurred under the influence of a chameleon spell, and Severyn was left with a simple echo of the Speaker’s voice.

  
“Until we meet again,” it said, and she hoped somewhere in her heart, that it would be sooner rather than later.


	4. The Family

Severyn arrived in Cheydinhal under the cover of dusk, when the sunset was just beginning to spread an orange glow over the evening sky. It had taken several days for her to get her affairs in order, after she had met with the Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood for the second time and had been invited to the Sanctuary. Severyn hadn’t had amassed many possessions; what little trinkets she had she sold for gold long ago, and the few she kept were the remnants of the family she once had. A pewter locket with her mother’s portrait inside, when she was younger; healthier and happier. A few vials that she had kept from her mother’s alchemy shop when first she left the city of Cheydinhal 14 years ago. Those were carefully wrapped in cloth and placed at the very bottom of a rucksack mostly filled with alchemical reagents, books, knives and their whetstones, clothes, and a few other life necessities to bring to her new home.

She had been moving from boarding house to boarding house for the past few months; never staying in one place for long. Paranoia, as her fighting tutor had once said, was like a sickness. Once your body is fully taken over by it, you become immobilized. But if you have a little at a time, it becomes bearable. You become somewhat immune to it. Severyn had stayed in Skingrad for a time, having rented a room at The West Weald Inn under a false name before she murdered the smugglers in Cheydinhal. It didn’t take long to clear out her belongings and leave a sum of gold for the landlords’ trouble. Another time, she thought, she could pine for the vineyards and the stone walls covered in morning glory blossoms. It was now time to return to the scene of her latest and most passionately executed crime, to spin a new story for herself into the Dark Brotherhood’s web.

The ride from Bravil to Skingrad and then back to Cheydinhal was a long and arduous one, especially when one was making the trip alone. Severyn had been lucky to not run into any bandits along the roads; the back ones were the safest if you knew where to pass and where to continue. She had made the journey before, on the days before the murder, and found little to no trouble then either. It could have been dumb luck or maybe, the divines watching out for her. Perhaps after she got settled in the Sanctuary, she could visit the Great Chapel and pay her respects. Lay out a few sticks of incense, buy some wine for libations in the marketplace, maybe pick some herbs outside the city wall for offerings.

Cheydinhal had not changed in the days past the murder; the stream that broke the town in parts flowed as ever it did, the humidity that grew from it made the night air feel heavy. Perhaps the only thing that changed in this city since her last visit was the absence of a certain smuggling ring, Severyn thought with quiet pride. Though she knew the city well, it took her a while to find the abandoned house that was home to the Dark Brotherhood. It stood—or rather leaned—a ramshackle two-story dwelling among houses that fared only marginally better. Its once white exterior was now overrun with ivy and moss, and dark slats of wood were hammered across the windows and doors to keep out prying eyes. A gate crafted out of crumbling stone walls and a few broken columns laid in disarray before a weed-filled yard. Severyn sighed, and raised an eyebrow upon seeing it. Somehow she doubted that the famed Dark Brotherhood would make their house in such a hovel. But she trusted the words of the Speaker, and continued forth, through the undergrowth that barely budged under her footsteps.

  
The woman opened the door she had previously thought to be hammered shut--surprisingly, it had swung open quite easily, revealing only darkness behind it. Apparently the wooden boards were simply for show. Casting a furtive glance around to make sure no one noticed her entry, she summoned a small Magelight in her fingers as she crept into the house. It mimicked its outside in untidiness, and it was obvious from the looks of the interior that no one had been in the building for a long time. The furniture made of wood was overcome with rot, books were sodden and strewn along the floor--Severyn cringed as she made her way through the house. Was this some sort of trap? Had the Speaker lured her to this home in order to commit some murder of his own? Immediately, prickles of suspicion began to travel down her back, but she continued through the dilapidated interior. If someone was going to jump out and try to kill her, it wasn’t like she was an untrained amateur--she could put up quite a fight. But she didn’t want to, if she was going to be honest. The thought of joining a group that reveled in the artistry of death, prayed to a god who represented the Void itself...it all appealed to her in ways nothing had before.

She reached a stone stairwell in a far corner of the house, one that was strangely well kept compared to the rest of the building. Severyn’s heart leapt into her throat, and she descended carefully. It dragged deeper and deeper until she was certain she was fully underground. The Magelight in her fingers that had drawn on her magicka up until this point sputtered and died, leaving her in the dark damp stairway. Severyn walked down further, bracing herself on the cold stone of the walls. The heels of her boots clicked on the stone, and with each echoing step her heartbeat sped. When she reached the end of the stone passage, though, a wave of relief washed over her like a waterfall.

There, as the Speaker had said, was the mysterious entryway that led to the headquarters of the Dark Brotherhood. Before her laid a black stone door with a skull carved into its face, and there, on its head--the emblem of the Dark Brotherhood, a bloody hand print that seemed to cast a crimson glow over the hall. Toward the base of the door laid another elaborate carving; a tall skeletal woman brandishing a bloody dagger over the heads of small carved humans, hands raised in supplication. Something within that carved picture spoke to her, not in words, but in emotion. She felt an indescribable warmth grow in her chest, an essence of pure protection and divine, maternal love. Was this what praying to the Divines was supposed to feel like, she wondered absently. She never felt anything when worshipping them, not for years, and nothing like this. Severyn could only compare it to the distant memory of her mother hugging her close when she was just a small child. She longed for that, with a suddenness that scared her. Severyn hadn’t felt such weakness since she was but a child. Where was all of this coming from?

Within the a few moments, the feeling faded, leaving her chest cold as a stiff wind and aching with absence. Severyn’s eyes travelled back to the skull and the bloody hand, and she paused in an effort to compose herself, still trying to understand the emotions that overcame her. Alongside her slowing breath, she could have sworn she heard a slow, deep heartbeat reverberate inside the door. It sent chills down her spine, mixed apprehension and excitement.

In a hissing whisper, the Black Door spoke.

“What is the color of night?” it asked, voice as cracked and ancient as the stone of which it was made.

“Sanguine, my brother,” Severyn answered, and only a few seconds passed before the door spoke again, the words echoing from its skeletal stone lips as sweet as any family’s praise.

“Welcome home.” the Black Door boomed, and opened.

Home, the woman thought, and the thought shook her to the core.

* * *

 

She stepped over the stone threshold and into a large, open foyer. High ceilings arched several feet above her, and large oil lanterns hung from sconces embedded into their rocky crevices. Large slabs of dark rock overlaid upon themselves made up the floor, and covering them were large rugs--a bit worn but still elegant in their designs. Stone columns stood full and tall connecting the ceiling with the floor, and tapestries embroidered with the Dark Brotherhood’s emblem were draped over them. The ornamentation was sparse save the rugs, tapestries and a few wooden benches, giving a somewhat severe look to the hideaway. All of the foyer was connected in several tunneling hallways leading deeper into the compound; some with heavy wooden doors blocking them from view, others open but with their contents hidden by shadows.

Severyn moved forward, intending to investigate the open space but stopped as a figure came into view from one of the shadowy halls. He glided quickly over to her—she couldn’t tell how, as his feet were touching the floor but he moved like a hot blade through butter, smooth and effortless. He was clad in similar black robes to the Speaker she had previously encountered, but was a mite taller than the man she met. Upon looking closer, not only was he tall in build, but extraordinarily emaciated. His face curved sharply inward at his hollow cheek, casting angular shadows on the rest of his face. Sunken red eyes peered out at her from their pale sockets, and she caught the faintest glimmer of inhumanly sharp, pearly teeth behind his lips as he smiled. It wasn’t a smile borne of hunger, but of polite welcome, she realized, and was a bit startled. All of him seemed at odds with each other.

The man spoke with a lilting accent as he looked Severyn over.

“Welcome, welcome. You must be this Sanctuary’s newest Dark Sister. It’s a pleasure.” He extended a thin and bony hand towards her, which the woman took tentatively. His fingers were cold as a grave in winter, and she repressed the urge to jump at the chill.  “Ah, forgive me, I didn’t introduce myself. I am Vicente Valtieri, the Executioner of this Sanctuary. And you...have most certainly noticed my condition, have you not?”

With that statement, his smile turned a bit rueful. “Do not let my appearance unnerve you. The needs and Tenets of this Brotherhood come before my own needs as a vampire.”

Severyn blinked a few times in shock. A vampire, as her superior? This would be interesting. She had only heard stories of the rare and blood-hungry monsters, and to be working under one who had such a genteel attitude….

“My name is Severyn Ulasi. The Speaker of this Sanctuary referred me here,” she replied.

“One of Lucien’s own recruits, hm? That’s a bit rare,” the vampire mused, and tucked a lock of his thin brown hair behind an ear. “He must have seen a significant amount of promise to take you in.”

Severyn bowed her head demurely, a bit stunned by the words, even if they were standard praise for new assassins.

“The last person he recruited was...Antoinetta, I think? It must have been; she’s the youngest here.”

“Who is Antoinetta?”

“I’ll introduce you to everyone as soon as you’re settled in, of course. Your new siblings are dying to meet you. No pun intended, of course.” Vicente chuckled a little, and Severyn felt her heart warm just a bit at the kindness.

  
“Come now, let’s get you to your room. You will likely have some time before you start on contracts, so you can unpack your things.” The man gestured for Severyn to follow him down one of the dark corridors exiting from the foyer, and she did.

“You’ll be rooming with Telaendril, a Bosmer. As of now, she’s the only one without a roommate. She may be a bit miffed at first to share her room, but she’ll get used to it in time.”

“I apologize, I don’t mean to intrude--”

“No, no,” Vicente waved a hand. “There’s a chance that she’ll be happy to have a bedfellow. As I said, we heard there was going to be another member joining the sanctuary, so it isn’t as if we were not prepared for your arrival.”

Severyn nodded and continued down the hall, where candles in iron cages lit the way. Finally, the two stopped before a heavy wooden door, similar to the ones in the foyer that Severyn had seen. Without a fuss, Vicente pushed it open, and sure enough, two beds in a dim bedroom stood before them. A washbasin and a mirror, as well as a few cabinets, were present as well, creating a small but liveable place. A wave of exhaustion hit Severyn upon seeing her new arrangements, especially her bed, and she realized how much energy the journey must have taken from her.

“Please, go ahead and get settled. Most of the others are out on contracts or training, so you won’t be able to meet anyone for the next hour or so. Use the time as you will, and come out to the main room when you’re able.” Vicente backed out of the door, and bowed slightly as he did so. “Welcome home, new Sister.”

“Thank you, my Brother.”

At this, Vicente let out a cackle of laughter. “Call me Vicente, please. I haven’t been called simply ‘Brother’ in ages.”

“Alright, Vicente.” Severyn adjusted, and Vicente accepted it with a serene smile.

Severyn unpacked what few belongings she had brought into her bedside cabinet, and collapsed on her bed with a heavy sigh. She stared at the arching stone of the ceiling, and counted the cracks until she dozed off. It was the best sleep she’d had in years.

* * *

  
She awoke to the sound of distant chattering voices. Assuming it came from the recently returned assassins, she hurried to the wooden door--taking a second to adjust her clothes from her nap. It wouldn’t do to make a bad first impression on her new coworkers--no, her new Family.

The dark corridor looked exactly as it had when she had arrived, and she walked purposefully to the foyer, nervous energy flooding her veins. Would they all be as kind as Vicente? Would they accept her with open arms, or would they shy away from her scarred face and quiet demeanor?

The shadowy hall branched off into significantly more light as she entered the open space, carefully tugging her robes tighter. Severyn stifled a yawn and squinted at the brightness, and suddenly, whatever quiet atmosphere she had imagined for herself was broken by a burst of sound.

A shrill clamor of excited, feminine laughter, a spatter of clapping hands, and she was entirely surrounded by a group of 5 people all robed in black, all eager to see her.

  
“New blood!” a large Orc man called out, and his toothed face split into a grin. Alongside him was a Breton woman, a Bosmer--Telaendril, she assumed--and two Argonians--one male and one female.  
The Breton girl who looked to be no more than nineteen or twenty had been the one who laughed, it seemed, from the childish grin on her face.

“You’re the new recruit, aren’t you? I’m Antoinetta Marie, Slayer for the Brotherhood. It’s an honor!” She stuck out a small, white hand, and Severyn shook it. “Another Sister in the Brotherhood, Sithis be praised! Take that, Gogron!” Antoinetta whooped at the orc, who rolled his eyes. "Gogron said it would be a man recruited next, he bet me ten gold pieces for it!”

“Wish there were a tenet against cheatin’ your brethren outta gold,” Gogron muttered, but turned to Severyn, brightly. “I’m Gogron gro’Bolmog. Eliminator for the Brotherhood, and my specialty’s heavy weapons. Glad to meet ya.”

“And you,” Severyn nodded. “Forgive me, but aren’t assassins normally…?”

“Oh, yeah. You're wondering why an Orc would be tryin' to creep about, quiet as a rat. Aren't assassins normally more stealthy, you mean. ” Gogron chuckled. “Well, I’m here for the jobs that don’t require all o’ that! For me, whatever kills the target kills the target. I get the job done fair ‘n square, no fussin’ about in the shadows for Gogron.”

“I see,” the woman said, a bit taken aback. Even if she did know a lot about killing, it would do for her to learn more about the Brotherhood.

“Gogron! Antoinetta! Stop crowding the woman, give her space else she’ll likely cut you,” a raspy voice rang out through the clamor of voices.

  
One of the two Argonians, the female, stepped forward to shake Severyn’s hand. It was warm and scaly, but not unpleasant. “I’m Ocheeva, an Executioner and Shadowscale. It’s an honor to meet you, new Sister.”

“You as well, Sister,” Severyn said. “But what do you mean by Shadowscale? Forgive me, I’m not well versed in the Brotherhood.”

  
“Well, that’s unsurprising as we keep close tabs on our information.” Ocheeva said, and smoothed a hand over her scaled forehead. “Shadowscales are Argonian children born under the Shadow in Blackmarsh. We’re put into the assassin business rather early. My brother Teinaava and I, we’re both Shadowscales. We served the Imperial Court in Argonia for a time before we came here, to Cheydinhal.”

“That’s quite impressive, Sister Ocheeva.” Severyn murmured. “I’m sure the Brotherhood is lucky to have such accomplished assassins under its employ.”

“Now you’re just trying to butter me up, and you’ve not even got a contract yet!” Ocheeva grinned, and rested a hand on Severyn’s shoulder. “I’m technically the head of the Brotherhood while Lucien attends to other business, you see. You’ve got good taste in flattery.”

“Oh, I wasn’t trying to flatter you, I merely--”

“I’m joking, my Sister. But I am actually the acting head of the Brotherhood. I give out contracts, all of that work comes to me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, then. And your brother, what part does he play?”

The male Argonian who looked a lot like his sister stepped forward, and bowed slightly. “As you know, I’m Teinaava. I’m simply an assassin, like Antoinetta and Gogron. It’s good to meet you….what was your name?

“Severyn Ulasi,” Severyn said for the second--and definitely not last--time that night.

The Bosmer woman who had been amongst the group came up next, smiling softly at the woman before her.

“I’m Telaendril, assassin for the Brotherhood. It’s a pleasure.”

“It’s nice to meet you as well. I think that our Brother, Vicente, said that we will be rooming together.”

“Is that right?” Telaendril’s brows raised. “Well, I’m glad it’ll be you instead of another male member. We’d have to do all the room assignments again.”

“I’m glad I saved you the trouble,” Severyn smiled slightly.

“I am, too! Such things ought not be so irritating to take care of, and yet the mundane things always are.” The Bosmer rolled her eyes, and Severyn felt sympathetic. This woman seemed to understand her.

“Does this sort of thing happen frequently? New recruiting, I mean.”

“Well, not all the time. As far as I know, Antoinetta was the last person to be recruited, several months ago. Could be a year now, perhaps. To be honest, you’d have to ask her. I don’t often hang around her. She’s a bit...young.” Telaendril confided in a whisper.

“She does look rather young to be here,” Severyn agreed.

“I don’t doubt her skills, not at all, but I find her a bit loud for my tastes.”

“I think we’ll be able to get along quite well--I tend to keep to myself, anyway.”

“Sithis preserve you, I have never been quite so happy to hear such news.” Telaendril sighed in relief, and took Severyn’s hands in her own. “I think you’ve met everyone here except M’raaj-Dar. He keeps to himself more than I do.”

“M’raaj-Dar?”

“A Khajiit mage, and I think he’s more prickly than a patch of Bloodgrass. Doesn’t talk much to anyone aside from Ocheeva, and likely the Speaker himself. But he’s useful for spells and all that. If you need any spells bought, he’s the man to go to.”

“Understood,” Severyn nodded, weakly. All of this information was beginning to make her head spin, and even though she had rested a bit, it was nowhere near enough to take all this in in one night.

Luckily, Ocheeva spotted her again and seemed to realize this. She swooped between the Dunmer and her new roommate, placing a scaled hand on her shoulder.

“Severyn, sister, you should go rest. You must have had a harsh journey-- you came from Bravil, didn’t you?”

“Skingrad, actually. My last contract was in Bravil.”

“Oh, a contract? You’ve had one already?” The Argonian woman looked surprised.

“Well, I’m not certain it’s a contract, per se. The Speaker had me go through an initiation of sorts, gave me a blade and bade me to kill a man.”

“Ah, yes, an initiation contract. Did he trick you through it? Change your knives out with duller ones?” A knowing twinkle appeared in Ocheeva’s slit eyes.

“How did you guess?” Severyn asked, honestly surprised. “Does he do that to everyone?”

“Everyone? No, not in the least. The ones who show a high amount of promise, though--those are the ones he toys with. Makes sure they have the guts and the willpower to go through with joining our little family.”

Severyn chewed her scarred lip, pensively. This was interesting--two people on this night had told her she had a “significant amount of promise.” It was seeming less and less like empty flattery.

“He took my poisons when first he came to me. I had to slit the throat of my contract and stab a near-witness through the eye. Originally I was planning to be very quiet about the deaths, but…”

“Sounds like our Speaker,” Ocheeva chuckled. “I’ve known him for quite a while, and he’s always testing his recruits. Even when he’s not around, he asks me to do it for him.”  
The Dunmer woman nodded, taking in all the information, but couldn’t stifle a yawn at the same time.

“Oh, Void take me, you’re obviously tired.” Ocheeva said, her voice turning matronly and stern. “Look at me talking when you’ve gone through such a day. Go sleep, and we’ll save you some dinner if you wish. Don’t worry, we won’t poison you.”

That made Severyn laugh, sharp and clear, and it surprised her--the honesty, the suddenness of the pleasure coursing through her veins. How long had it been since she had felt like this? Too long, she thought.

She had a family, now. One that could make her laugh, that saved her dinner as she slept. A dark family, one tinged with blood and terrible acts, but a Family all the same. For once, as she returned to the bedchamber she shared with Telaendril, she felt whole.

She felt at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen....i love the cheydinhal sanctuary but i feel like the characters didn't get nearly enough personality. so i'm hoping to change that in my writing! i always saw antoinetta marie as a young and slightly hot-headed young woman who gets ahead of herself sometimes due to her youth and occasional inexperience. ocheeva always seemed like a mom, and i haven't figured out teinaava yet. i love telaendril and gogron very much.


	5. The Fort

The next several days at the Sanctuary flew by quickly; Severyn was given only one or two small contracts over that amount of time, just a few quick kills in Cheydinhal, nothing extravagant or worthy of much fuss. But she enacted those kills with the finesse and determination that had become expected of her as the newest member of the Dark Brotherhood, and that was enough to keep her wits sharp. It was poisonings, mostly; a few drops of distilled aconite in some tankards of the less fortunate drinkers of Cheydinhal on one occasion, a sewing needle daubed in nightshade for another. Severyn knew that the Sanctuary was still testing her mettle, making sure she was ready for bigger contracts. 

And Divines, was she. She felt the faintest bloodlust, the faintest trace of jealousy rise within when she spoke of her contracts with her fellow assassins, all of them waxing poetic on their latest kills, dramatic and subtle alike. She wanted more than anything to be in on all of the fun, but she knew she had to be patient. She could do patient, yes, but the envy of better contracts still stung like little insect bites at the back of her mind. 

It was two and a half weeks, almost three long weeks of patience and restraint until she was contacted by Vicente Valtieri. Severyn had been reading a book, lazing about while she waited for her next job. Unexpectedly, the vampire had rapped sharply on her door with his all-bone hands and called out to her from within her chamber.    


“I’ve got a message for you. It’s rather urgent, so if you could come retrieve it at your earliest convenience—“   


“A message?” Severyn jumped from her lazing about, putting her book aside hurriedly. She didn’t want to seem too eager for fear of looking juvenile, but she was sure the man behind the door had heard the excitement in her voice anyway.    


“Yes, dear sister. It’s from our Speaker. I have not looked at it, of course—I would not intrude on your privacy—but I would assume it is important. It carries his signature.”   


“For what purpose would he send a message here? Could he not come to the Sanctuary?” Severyn questioned, adjusting her clothes as she approached the door.    


Vicente sighed behind it, and she had a feeling he was rubbing his temples. “Our speaker, Lucien, is a mysterious man, but this I’m sure you know. He prefers to keep to himself if he can. Sometimes he comes by, yes, but it’s rare to find him anywhere outside his fort these days. Being a Speaker does carry a significant amount of responsibility. “   


“I’m certain of it,” Severyn said, swinging the door open with a loud creak. “May I see it? The letter, I mean.”   


“Of course, dear sister.” Vicente smiled and extended the missive to her. She took it quickly, tucking into a pocket of her robes.    


“That was all I needed to give you as of now. I’m sure Ocheeva will have more contract opportunities within the next few days.”   


Severyn huffed and attempted to hide her disappointment. Vicente caught the irritation in her face and gave her a slightly disapproving look. How many initiates had he seen making the same face, she wondered. Had he thought fools of them too for being so eager? She flushed, embarrassed.    


“Don’t worry,” Vicente said, placing an icy hand on her shoulder. He’d done it so frequently in the past few weeks that she’d gotten used to the deathly chill he exuded, and didn’t jump from it.  “You’ll be out with the others on contracts before you know it. We wished to give you time to settle into the family before we sent you somewhere like Bruma, you know.”   


“And I appreciate the sentiment,” Severyn said. “I’m just a bit on edge, recently. I wish to be of use to the family in more ways than just poisoning drinks."   


“You will, you will.” Vicente reassured her. “Lucien and Ocheeva have already explained to me that you show a generous amount of promise. I haven’t received many details on that front, but I’m sure that your new message says something about it.”   


Severyn’s eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion, even though the praise warmed her blood. 

“Are you sure you didn’t look into my letters?”

“Of course not, dear sister,” Vicente scoffed. “Going through a Dark Brother’s mail may not be breaking a Tenet of the Brotherhood, but I do have some morals. It’s just a hunch of mine. I know Lucien, and have known him for many years." 

“How long have you known him, might I ask?”

“Long enough that it would take hours for me to tell you of the past we have,” he said vaguely, and straightened his black robes. “Go on and read that letter. I’ve business to attend to, and I’m sure that when you read that message, you’ll have some too.”

“Understood. Thank you, Vicente.” Severyn murmured as he glided past her bedchamber. It never failed to amaze her, how silently he moved. She retreated back to the room she shared with Telaendril immediately after he left, heart beginning to race. What would this letter entail? Would it stake her out a difficult contract? Or would it detail another ritual of the Brotherhood that she would have to endure? If it was the latter, she would have to remember to stash her poisons in more clever locations, as she had never quite recovered from the fact that Speaker Lucien had outright stolen her prepared method of killing, forcing her to improvise.   


She shook her head briskly. There was no use dwelling on the ‘might be’s’ when the actual letter was right here, in her hands. Severyn opened it gently, breaking the seal of black wax that had kept it together. So Vicente had been telling the truth about not opening her mail, she mused, and began to read.    
  
In elegant handwriting that more befit some noble than an assassin of the Dark Brotherhood, she could make out the words below:

>  
> 
> Dark Sister Severyn Ulasi,
> 
> Past Cheydinhal’s gates to the east is a stronghold called Fort Farragut. 
> 
> Meet me there at your earliest convenience, or upon your receiving this message, as we have some things to discuss.
> 
> -L

 

The letter was short, but there was an unspoken power in the concise words that the Speaker chose, Severyn thought. Though she was interested in speaking with her superior, she could not help but feel a sharp jab of anxiety at her core when she read the final words. “We have some things to discuss”--that sort of thing had never boded well in the past, and she only hoped that it was only the choice of words and not the intent that made the phrasing sound so cold. 

She folded the missive carefully, tucking it into a pocket of her robes. It wouldn’t do to neglect her summons, and it wasn’t as if she was doing anything else this afternoon. Reading her books could wait. She had a meeting with her Speaker to attend.

* * *

Late afternoon was always pleasant in Cheydinhal, if a bit muggy from the streams passing through the city. The sun shone through the treetops, dappling the leaf-covered grounds of the forests outside the city, and Severyn shielded her eyes from the brighter rays. She wasn’t awfully fond of being in such bright light--her best work was done in the shadows of night, of course--but if it was for a meeting with the Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood, she couldn’t very well ask him to postpone until the evening.

It didn’t take an overly long time to arrive at the crumbling stone walls of Fort Farragut; though not in as much disarray as the abandoned house that hid the Sanctuary from view, the stronghold was obviously old. Webs of ivy strung themselves like garlands over broken stone parapets, and what wasn’t sun-bleached was covered in moss and undergrowth. Severyn didn’t know what she expected--perhaps for the Speaker of such a famed guild to own a more fanciful dwelling? A manor, or a small cottage, even. But all the same, she mused, what better way to avoid attracting attention than to live in a dilapidated fort outside of the city’s purview? 

Severyn took note of a few scattered traps outside of the entrance-- a tripwire just barely visible after the stone walls curved towards a heavy door, a few clawed ones meant for bears or some other large animals. Hopefully not the visitors that the Speaker invited to his own home, she grumbled. Then again, she wouldn’t be much of an assassin if a poorly disguised bear trap was the death of her. Perhaps these were yet another test of willpower for the initiates of the Dark Brotherhood, though Severyn was certain that at least a few hapless adventurers had stumbled into his abode as well, looking for some treasures. Would it be too much to imagine that the Speaker himself had disposed of the unwanted guests, she wondered absently, as she made her way into the heart of the fort. The walls and heavy door gave way to dark corridors, cool like the inside of a long-forgotten cave.

Her steps rattled a bit on the stone floors, though she intended to keep her footfalls quiet. Her boots were every so often illuminated in the flickering glow of a wall lantern. She stopped once, to adjust the knapsack of travelling goods she always kept with her when leaving the Sanctuary, and heard a jarring, clattering noise that was most definitely not her footsteps. Severyn peered into the shadows before her from a well hidden corner, and bit back a gasp.

There before her, skulking around, was a skeleton draped in an ancient cape that looked not unlike the one Brotherhood initiates wore. It shuffled around, bleached bones harshly hitting the floors beneath whenever it moved. Upon a closer look, Severyn noticed that it carried a rather wicked looking club in it what was left of its hands. What was that thing? Why was it in the Speaker’s home? Would she have to...dispatch it herself? 

She stepped from her nook into the slightly more well lit area where the skeletal  _ thing _ was making its way around. Carefully, ever so carefully, she drew her knife and advanced upon the creature, but stopped sharp in her tracks. It had turned its head to look at her; she could only assume it was staring at her with its hollow, dusty sockets. Strangely enough, it did not make any move to attack the woman, just stood in its place, almost like a startled deer in a grove. If it wasn’t going to outright attempt to murder her, perhaps it would be reasoned with, Severyn thought. It wasn’t as if she had many other options at this point.

“Excuse me,” she began, tentatively, not quite believing she was attempting to converse with a skeleton. “I’m here to see the Speaker. Is he….available?”

Unsurprisingly--or surprisingly, as Severyn couldn’t begin to imagine what a logical response would have been-- the creature did not move other than shuffling its feet. No words came from its toothy maw, no groans except the creaking of its bony body in the silence of the fort. Of course. It was a skeleton, and a skeleton--mobile as it was--didn’t have the means to speak.

“I’m assuming you haven’t met a Dark Guardian before.” a voice, low and familiar, seeped out of the shadows. It was just barely tinged with humor, and Severyn bristled, but kept her emotions hidden.

“No, my Speaker, I believe this would be my first time.” she responded, sardonically. Lucien Lachance slipped out of the shadows, arms crossed, and the faintest of smirks on his face. He glanced over to what he called the Dark Guardian, and dismissed it with a wave of his hand. It moved remarkably quickly out of his way, and soon Severyn and the Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood were standing in a dim corridor.

“They are enchanted skeletons, often of those who have died within Sanctuaries of the Brotherhood. While their souls live on in eternal service to Sithis, some of their bodies continue to work on Nirn.” He paused, giving the woman before him a brief once over.

“You seem unharmed from the traps outside. Good. I expected as much from you. As I said in my letter, we have business to discuss--follow me, if you will.” He briskly turned on his heel, and walked back into the shadows.

“Yes, my Speaker.” Severyn murmured, and did so.

* * *

 

Lucien led her through several twisting corridors of the fort, eventually leading her to a sparsely furnished living space. A few chairs, a worn rug, and a table surrounded a small fireplace, which the Speaker stoked upon entering. With the hand that was not tending to the fire, he gestured for Severyn to sit. She sat next to the fire, and soon enough the Speaker joined her at the table.

“If I may be so bold, might I ask the purpose of this meeting?”

“You may,” Lucien intoned, and steepled his fingers. Now that he was not cloaked in shadows, the firelight glinted in his dark eyes. “But I would sooner explain it to you myself, rather than dodging around such questions.”

“I apologise, my Speaker.” Severyn said. “I merely did not know what to expect on arriving here.”

“No need to apologize,” the man replied, blithely. “I did not wish to make my intentions clear within my letter--though I trust the fellow members of our sanctuary to their own privacy, I tend to keep my messages brief. Such things are best left to speak of in person.”

“Such things?”

“Your previous work, before joining the Brotherhood. I believe on our first meeting, I said that I wished to speak to you about your...actions.”

The woman inhaled deeply, anxiety flooding her veins.

“What do you wish to know of them, my Speaker?”

“Everything.” Lucien Lachance leaned back in his chair, enough to give an appraising look to his companion. “Spare me no details. If I am to assess how you would best fit within our Sanctuary, I would have you tell me what you have done in your past.”

She nodded, slowly. “It is not that I am unwilling, my Speaker, to tell you what actions I have committed. I simply think it will take a...significant amount of time to detail my history to you.”

“Hence, why I invited you to my home instead of making a brief visit to the Sanctuary itself.”

“But are you not busy? With all the duties required of a Speaker, I would think that--”

“Enough of that, dark sister.” Lucien interrupted, and there was the slightest edge to his voice. “I extended a gracious invitation to you, to join me in my home, and in return I ask you only to regale me with your past. I understand there are sensitive topics that those in our line of work hesitate to broach. I have heard all of the excuses, and if you indeed think that it would take up my time to tell your tale, I would have you waste no more of it.”

Severyn flushed, humiliated. 

“I apologize, my Speaker. I meant no disrespect.” she murmured, bowing her head. “I’ll tell you everything you wish to know.”

“Good, good.” His steely gaze softened, and the crease in his brow unraveled. “I am eager to hear what you have to say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter detailing more of Severyn's history will arrive very shortly! I wouldn't have you all wait so long.


	6. The Mutilation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for explicit discussion of gore and mutilation, and also mentions of child/parental abuse.

She sat at the wooden table, the heat of the fireplace warming her back and neck. Light flickered over the pale white of her scarred mouth, and where each ember fell shadow went,  following the curve of her lips. She inhaled a long breath, tinged with curling smoke, and sighed it back out. Lucien stared back at her, dark eyes impassive, but his posture was intent, waiting. Severyn could hold out no longer.

“For the first seventeen years of my life, I lived here, in Cheydinhal,” she began. “This was years before the Emperor’s assassination. My mother, Merizah, owned an alchemy shop in town, and my father--he was absent. Not out of neglect, but out of duty. His name was Prion--he was a silks and fabrics merchant, went all over Cyrodiil. I was too young to remember him, mostly.” Severyn paused, running a finger over the delicate whorls of wood in the table. “But I remember his death.”

 

_It was cold that day. Even the sunlight wasn’t warm; the only thing it lent to the day was a dry glow over the myriad bottles and vials of Mother’s shop. She had come running in from out of doors, while I waited indoors. A messenger had come, and I thought it odd--customers came in person or sent their servants to place their orders, to pick up their goods. Perhaps once or twice, letters from Morrowind had come bearing news of distant relatives. Mother collected them like the rarities they were, put them in a dusty old case and never spoke of them. For all I knew, it was Mother, Father and I._

 

“I heard her wail as she entered back into our home. Clutched the parchment in her fist, like a weapon. Father had been victim to a bandit attack before he reached his customers. I believe the guards found him on the Orange Road. Outside of Chorrol. What goods hadn’t been stolen were scattered about his body. His throat had been cut; Mother didn’t tell me this, of course. She waited till a year after, when I was fourteen.”

Lucien nodded, face neutral. Severyn hadn’t expected to start at the very beginning, but when the words flowed out of her, she couldn’t help it. He ought to know, she thought, and he was the Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood, after all, and she was loathe to not do as he asked.

 

“She married not long after, of course. These were times where a single mother could not support herself on alchemy alone. She needed someone to carry the burden that came after burying my father. Though I did not expect she would bring an even greater burden on our shoulders,” Severyn scoffed.

“When I was fourteen, she married another man. Not a Dunmer, like my father had been, but an imperial. He was tall--much taller than her or I-- and very broad. He was the employer of many shopkeepers, like herself. It was as much a business relationship as a marriage, if not more.”

 

_He had eyes like coal, black but without propensity to burn. They were so cold, but I thought a father’s eyes were supposed to be as such. I did not know much about what a father was supposed to be. Perhaps that was why I had been tricked so furiously._

 

“At first, he was not unkind to us. He would flatter my mother, and give us both gifts during my mother’s courtship. She practically fell at his feet. A woman who I had thought so strong, wilted so easily to him. Mother needed the money, of course, I could not blame her. And with him, the coin rolled in better as it had been in the years of my father.

The beatings, though, those came a year after. He had always been a bit callous, after the marriage. I simply thought that marrying did that to a man, gave them more responsibility, hardened their heart. I never thought he would lay a hand on her, but he did. He did to me, too, sometimes.”

Severyn ran a hand over her arms, as if the room had taken on a sudden chill. “I got used to it. It became a familiar ritual, when he would come back from the tavern. A good deal or a bad deal, it didn’t matter. He was a rowdy drunk, and he would take it out on Mother and I. I offered, several times, to poison his ale or to make him sick. Mother stopped me.”

 

_“You don’t need to, Severyn, my child. I am stronger than you think.” Those words, sewn like stitches into my memory. I knew sickness would have stopped the beatings only for a spell. They would come back with a furor after he healed, though, like making up for lost time. But oh, if I did not crave the peace only a day would bring, to see those bruises on my mother fade._

 

“It went on like that for three years. I wondered what good coin was when it came with such strife. I could have run away, of course. But I didn’t. My mother ingrained in me the strength she carried; I bent and bent but did not break.

“For three years, my step-father was an ordinary shop manager. For three years, I did not know of what he did.”

 

_It was an autumn day, when I was seventeen, looking for alchemical herbs in the storehouse my mother kept. My step-father had stored some wares there too, various jars and such. I didn’t have any interest in them most days-- I do not recall what possessed me to go through his things. Perhaps a desperate wish to avoid my mother’s work, her often stern tongue. But I pressed against a block of stone within the storehouse, and the floor before me opened, a staircase into shadow._

_I followed it as it curved downwards. My childish mind likely thought it a secret adventure, at the end of it, perhaps a quest worthy of being put into storybooks. Perhaps one of the Divines whose attention I longed for would grant me power to quell the wickedness of my step-father._

_But that was not to be._

 

“At the bottom of the stairway, there was an ungodly stench. It’s been years upon years, and still I remember it as if it were yesterday. Old meat, and sweat, and piss. I thought perhaps an animal had gotten into the storeroom, died there.

But there were cages there. Cages upon iron cages, filthy with refuse. People, in those cages, kept like animals, all starved skin and bone. I couldn’t look at them. How could I? I was but a child and this was unlike anything I had dreamt of in my worst nightmares.”

Out of the corner of her focused eyes, Severyn saw Lucien’s eyes rise in subtle disbelief.

“All of that coin that came from him--all of it came from the blood of man and Mer. I have no doubt he was trading in human lives. How many had he dirtied his hands with, I do not know. I don’t even remember the grander details, not anymore.”

“I left that staircase open--I didn’t know how to close it-- and ran for my life. I couldn’t go to my mother, though I trusted her she would think me sick in the head to make such a lie about my ‘father’. Years of living with him had softened her will.”

 

_I ran through the gardens of Cheydinhal, over the wet moss and the grasses that seemed to never end. Over cobbled stone and wooden bridge, until my feet ached with the strain, until my heart raced with effort. I ended up at the river, at the water’s edge and I vomited until there was nothing left inside me. I must have expelled a good amount of my innocence there too._

 

“It took a day for him to find out about my little trek down the stairs. I was surprised he didn’t find out earlier. There was a group of them--him and his cronies, the men who must have been helping him smuggle all of those people. At least thirteen men. They tracked me down while I was running errands for Mother, cornered me in an alleyway.”

 

_I had never seen my stepfather’s eyes so cold, so devoid of empathy, than in that alley under the summer sun. He stepped from the group of men, forwards and out, towards me._

_“You’ve been putting your fair head where it doesn’t belong,” he said, voice mocking._

_“Father, I didn’t mean to go into your private space, I swear on the Divines. I only wanted to go help Mother--she wanted wormwood from the storehouse, I must have done something--”_

_“Shut up, you little knife-eared bitch. I’ll hear none of your petty excuses._ _You aren’t going to tell no one of this, Sevy, child. Not your dearest mother, not the guards.”_ _  
_ _“I won’t, I promise, father. I won’t tell a soul in Oblivion, I swear it.” The words tumbled out of my mouth. Bilious fear rose in my throat. I thought I knew what he was capable of. I thought I knew._

 _“We can’t have you interrupting the business. How can we be sure you won’t talk?”_  
_“Father, I won’t, I won’t,” I repeated, stepping further back until the warm graininess of brick was all I could feel against my shoulders. “I swear on the Divines. I won’t tell mother or the guards. You have my word.”_ _  
He sneered at that._ _“You call me father, still. So devoted to a man that isn’t even of your blood. Your mother is so proud of you. So docile, she says. So quiet and solemn.” His words were filled with venom._

_“If you talk, I’ll hurt her worse. You doubt me, girl, and I’ll show you.”_

_“I won’t talk, I won’t talk, please don’t hurt me--”_

_“Oh,” he laughed at that, sharp, cold as a winter’s wind. “I won’t hurt you, sweet thing. No, I won’t hurt you.” He turned his head to a hunched man at his right, behind him._

_“Decimus? You haven’t been proving yourself lately. Come, now. Show all of us what you’ve got.”_

_“Yes, of course, sir. What would you wish of me?” His hands were shaking. His eyes were bloodshot. It isn’t tears, nor fright. He’s high off skooma, I’d seen him partake with Father at the tavern, outside in the full moon. The next words he said...the next words, to this day, are seared into my eternal soul._

_“I can’t trust this child’s tongue. She’s clever.”_

 

Severyn stopped there, her eyes burning bright and clear and calm, two red flames under a wave of silver hair. The man before her has a furrowed brow, and he stares at her, rapt in attention.

The woman ran a hand over her mouth, tracing the thin and jagged scars over her cheek and jaw ever so slowly. Had it been any other situation, perhaps Lucien would have taken the gesture as sensual.

“Have you ever cut out a tongue before?” she asked, almost casually.

“Eyes, yes. But not a tongue.” Lucien responded, voice low.

“I trust you would have done a better job. This man--Decimus, who did this to me-- he did a terrible job. Left some of it intact. If Father really had wanted me not to talk, he would have had to cut out my tongue himself. But no, he was never one to get his hands dirty,” she spat.

The man sat silently, waiting for her to continue, but instead of speaking, Severyn leaned across the table, looking Lucien straight in the eyes. She raised a hand towards his face, then paused, gaze averting for a moment.

“Speaker, if I may be so bold….may I show you? Sometimes it’s...easier than speaking of it.”

Severyn saw something flicker through his eyes, some emotion that went too fast to calculate or understand. His brow creased, ever so slightly and his tongue darted out to run the seam of his own unscarred lips.

After a moment, he nodded.

“Go ahead.”

 

Very gently, with what felt like the utmost of respect, she placed her fingers over the Speaker’s jaw.

“Decimus first pinned me to the alley’s wall, holding me at the lower jaw. I was near catatonic from fear--and I couldn’t move, for at the time he had a knife pinned at my throat.” She lifted the pointer finger of her other hand to Lucien’s throat, right above his adam’s apple. Severyn could feel the slightest swell of breath, the warmth of his pulse beneath her hand.

“When he was certain I wouldn’t move, he pulled at my jaw and forced me to open my mouth. Though I bit at his fingers, it didn’t help.”

“He took my tongue in his fingers, gripping it in his shaking hand, and he cut it. Not all of it, as I said before. But his knife--his knife--”

Severn inhaled deeply, steadying her voice that had just begun to quaver.

 _“_ He carved through my skin like it was paper, but his hands shook so much that the knife he wielded was crooked in its path. It sliced along my lips, like so,”

The finger that had been at his throat moved upwards, and she dragged a zig-zagging pattern matching her own scars over the Speaker’s lips. There was a shadow of roughness, of stubble there, crossing over to where she stopped at the right corner of his mouth.

“It took ages, it felt like, to reach the opposite side of my mouth. By that time, my mouth was already filled with blood. I remember the bright red of it spilling onto the cobblestones, the taste of iron indelible for weeks after.

“Decimus’ hand trembled there, I recall. The tremor was so severe that his blade crawled further up here.”

Her hand traced a jagged line further over Lucien’s cheek, nearly over the tendons of his jaw.

“It is lucky that he stopped here. I would have lost the ability to eat, to speak. Thank the Divines for small mercies.” A quiet, nervous laugh slipped from her lips, and she could feel the Speaker’s mouth quirk under her fingers.

“He plucked my tongue out like one would pick a flower, then. Threw it onto the pavement like a piece of garbage, and the men all cheered at my defilement. My father scolded him, though, at his shaky work.”

Severyn slowly lifted her fingers from Lucien’s face, her demonstration over.

“Father brought me to Mother’s shop, spun some story about finding me after a robbery. He took all the gold I had from my pockets before escorting me over so that it would seem more realistic. The scheming bastard.” 

 

She sighed, and returned to her original position in her chair--though now, she was slumped over, palms pressed to eyes as if she had a headache. 

“It took months to recover, and when I did, I left Cheydinhal. I joined a guild of alchemists in Skingrad who specifically dealt in poisoning. I stayed there for seven years, learning, training. I spent the same amount of time under a teacher of the blade, who showed me how to properly use a dagger. Taught me how to kill swiftly, to be silent as the Void. I wanted nothing more than to get back at all of them, the men who watched my mutilation and cheered when it was over. Decimus, of course. And my father, the cause of all of this. But I found that I was remarkably good at killing in those fourteen years, and thought...perhaps I could extend such courtesy to those who did not wrong me, per se.”  

Lucien had been silent since she had demonstrated the cutting of her tongue. At this, he spoke.

“Did you murder him? Your father?”

A bitter smile twisted Severyn’s scarred face.

“Not yet. You see, I wished to wait until my mother’s death. I knew if I killed him when she was old and invalid, there would be no one to assist her. The brothers she had born before my time all have wives, children--lives of their own. I cannot return to Cheydinhal as a daughter, only as an assassin.”

“Why?”

“The life I led with my mother ended when my father ordered my tongue cut out. My innocence was spat on the pavement like so much blood. All hope I had to live a normal life, gone. When Mother dies….”

“When she dies, you will kill him?”

“I plan to.”

“And were the men at the smuggler’s den here in Cheydinhal….those were the men who had wronged you, were they not?”

“They were indeed. All except my father.”

“The one you flayed--”

“Decimus. I stabbed him in the mouth several times, too, for good measure. If he got to mutilate my mouth, I could at least do the same.”

“All twenty men, killed in one night. Smugglers and guards alike. Incredible.”

“I appreciate such kind words, my Speaker.”

“And your work, with the head,” Lucien started, eyes locked on Severyn. Again, that unintelligible emotion flared there--she had seen it before, that night when he came to her with a blade and a proposition, when she demonstrated the horror thrust upon her on his unscarred face. “It was--”

“Beautiful?” she supplied, the faintest glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “It is a dream of mine, to have my work be called such a thing.”

Lucien paused, and his gaze burned into her like the embers burning low in the fire beside them.

“Yes,” he eventually murmured, eyes never leaving hers. “Very much so.”


	7. The Affirmation

When Severyn found herself walking back to the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, the afternoon had turned to evening. Sunset like the one on her first arrival to the Sanctuary flushed the sky with bloody orange and gold; the beginnings of night’s shadow were starting to arrive. She paced mindlessly through the city streets, cobblestone unnervingly familiar under her feet. When she looked up, her heart sank to the pit of her stomach.

In her thoughtlessness, she had walked not to the sanctuary of her new family, but to the alley where she had been mutilated. It had been accidental, of course, but having just spoken to the Speaker about the event that changed her life inexorably… it made some sort of cosmic sense that she would have found herself here.

Severyn faced the dead end of the alley, now growing dim with the encroaching night, where the dust motes swam in unfathomable patterns. Perhaps if she stared at them, a constellation of her former self would connect those dots, and she could save herself the pain, the grief and horror.

It was a vain hope, as many hopes are. Her mind had been cloudy and numb since she discussed with her Speaker, and being here….it didn’t help things. She knelt at the edge of the alleyway, picking up the fragments of dust as if they held a part of her lost those fourteen years prior. No blood slicked the ground under her, no evidence of her terror lied within the alley any more. But still, that horrible void gaped within her, the ineffable knowledge of missing a part of one’s self. She felt unclean.

Severyn walked home dazed, as though stepping through molasses, reaching the Black Door and whispering the passphrase, halfheartedly. Severyn stumbled through the corridors, hearing the distant voices of her fellow assassins engaging in lively discourse. Worry gripped at her stomach in a constant force, and she clung to the shadows as if they were material.

_They can’t see me like this. They shouldn’t see me like this._

The familiar cool air of the sanctuary enveloped her, and she should have felt welcome, but she felt suffocated --something like this hadn’t happened in the weeks she had been here, maybe in the years since she was maimed. A distant remembrance of walking out of her home in the dead of night, face all bloody bandages and burning eyes, comes to her unbidden. All of this, all of this made her want to claw off her scars, healed as they were. She wanted them gone, the memory of them as well, wanted to be as she was.

_What was it like to be whole, again?_

Fourteen years of clarity, of solemn acknowledgment of her calamity, all snatched away when she spoke to someone. Severyn felt as if she was being torn apart all over again, but from the inside out. She felt the pinpricks of a thousand different knives in her mouth, all held by Decimus’ shaking, phantom hand.

_I’m stronger than this. I have to be stronger than this. I must be. I must remember what Mother told me._

She didn’t know where the tears came from. Where they could have come from, even--she hadn’t cried in years. Like from a stinging wind, her eyes overflowed, and she gripped the walls of the sanctuary, fingers finding crags in the unyielding stone, going forth. Forward was the only way she could even comprehend anymore, pulling herself against the undertow of her own misery. Every fiber in her being yelled for her to cease, to wallow, to stop.

 

There was something, then, that she couldn’t describe, and later only vaguely remember. A feeling, or a memory, perhaps; something inconceivable that swept like high tide against her soul.

 

Warmth. Like the sun, burning behind a myriad of clouds, unclear but still there. An awakening of something that had long slept. It pulled at her like an old song urging her to dance, and her feet felt lighter, somehow. She stepped unburdened, forward, again and again, feeling as if she could do it forever if this feeling willed it. The heat sang as blood in her ears after a new kill did. Severyn found herself running through the halls of the Sanctuary, following in the footsteps of something calling her with an inaudible voice.

And then she stopped, without realizing, finding herself in front of an alcove she didn’t recognize deep within the labyrinthine sanctuary. She closed her eyes against the tears still welling there like salty springs, feeling the gentle fires within her lap at her heart. It wasn’t a voice, but an unexplainable feeling, an urge as regular as breath. The same stern, gentle command of a mother to come inside, to be protected against ill weather.

What else could she do but enter?

 

The smell of deathbell and nightshade hung in the air, almost tangible in their perfume. When Severyn looked up to the high arches of the rocky ceiling, she found sprigs of them tied to long strings on the rafters. She continued into the alcove, and the warmth continued to envelop her. Before her laid a dais of black marble, maybe three feet wide, and atop it, a statue--the shape of an aged woman was cut into silver-grey stone. The aged lady’s hands were extended, bent at the elbows, where a cloak’s sleeves pooled elegantly. Her face was mostly hidden from view, and hooded; only a nose and a silent mouth were the evidence that she indeed had one. The warmth seemed to seep from the stone woman, even if the platform below her was as cold as ice. Severyn opened her own hands to mimic the woman’s form before her. She felt something entangle in the webbing of her fingers, as if something was ever so gently holding her hands. She gasped, surprised, but did not flinch away.

Instead Severyn knelt-- it felt like the right thing to do-- and pressed her forehead against the icy black of the marble. The tears had not quite dried upon her cheeks, and they stuck wetly to her hair. Her eyes closed, and she sank bodily onto the dais, fingers spread at the base of the statue of the woman, breath heaving.

She didn’t daydream as an adult. Maybe her imagination had frolicked as a child, but not since her mutilation had she let herself sink into flights of fancy. But this...this was not a type of daydream that she was familiar with. She was as herself, the chill of the marble platform still beneath her face, and yet, something was different.

 

A sound--something similar to a woman’s voice, as though muffled by walls upon walls-- spoke into the silence that had previously been occupied by Severyn’s ragged breathing.

_You are new to this place, my child, but not new to me. Tell me your troubles, dear one, and I will assist you._

Severyn felt her body wracked once again with sorrow. Her tongue felt heavy, and she felt her head raise to shake, once, minutely.

_You cannot speak of it, what has been done to you. How unjust, that one of my children must suffer so. Let me into your heart, child, and let me look there._

It felt as if warm fingers, as fragile as paper, pressed themselves to Severyn’s temples, to her forehead, against her scalp. More fingers than a human should have.

The memories again rose to the surface, and she felt them skimmed off, scraped through. Those immaterial hands, fingering through her life like a worn book. It could have lasted forever, or it could have lasted seconds; she couldn’t tell.

_Oh, my sweet child. You are burdened with such savagery, and in finding vengeance, you sought out family. Brought into the fold by fate._

Again the fingers tugged at her memory, and Severyn recoiled at the strangeness of it.

_Do not fight me,_ the voice said, stern but soft. _Let me see you, all, complete._

Severyn relented, obedient to this intangible feeling, this dream.

_And you are fearful of your place here. Scared to not belong in a place that welcomes you so. You have never felt welcome before, you think, and why should you be welcomed here?_

 

The woman felt tears prick against her eyelids, and the warm, thin hands wiped the them away, ever so gently.

_You are my child. Of course you are welcome here, as all my children are. Why do you not believe this?_

“No one, no god nor man, has ever offered me such courtesy,” Severyn wanted to sob, but she cannot speak with her leaden tongue.

_Of course not,_ the voice coos, and the fingers stroked her hair. _We were waiting for you. No Divines could touch you--you were pledged to us and us alone. They forsook you when I stayed._

_“You were waiting?”_ If she could not speak aloud, she could think.

_You have my name; you are my child, if not by blood. The destiny of an assassin needed to call you before I could claim you for my own._

_“I am my mother and my father’s child.”_

_Yes, but you are_ my _child too. You, and all the rest of the souls who find peace in bloodshed. In the shadows of night, in the absence of light, in the still of the Void. When you stray from my path, I am here to guide you home._

_“Even if you are my mother, it took you so long, so long and I suffered for it. Why couldn’t you stop it?”_

_I cannot control fate. I am not all powerful. But I protect my own when I can. In all your journeys, I am there. In every blade-strike, every drop of poison, I am the sleeping, creeping death._

_“I understand,”_ Severyn sounded petulant, a child in the eyes of gods.

_My child, sweet Severyn….I cannot speak for longer, as you are not equipped to Listen._

_“Don’t leave me,”_ she pleaded, and the warmth flooded her in response, soothing, gentle.

_I will not, child. I never will. Remember this, as you wake, and these last items in your heart._

_“Anything,”_ she responds.

_Know this; they will know you as a harbinger, dear one. They will know you by your devotion to us, your unrelenting devotion, and I will gift you love for every life you bring to me._  
_Know that your brethren welcome you, they love you as I love you._

_Your scars will fade in time, leaving new skin in their wake._

_Wake._

 

Wake _._

 

Severyn did, from her reverie, and the stone beneath her is drenched with tears she thought once unshed. Her heart was lighter, the sadness lingered, but lesser. Lesser than it was, more manageable, like it had been before Lucien bade her speak.

She would serve dutifully, without fail, for her Speaker and her brethren, to be worthy of that undying love.

A last whispered breath floats along the flowery air, and she hears it with her heart more than her ears.

_Know me. Recognize me._

She did this too, and the words fall gentle upon her scarred lips like petals. Words that she knew, knew not in her mind but in her soul.

“Sweet Mother, sweet Mother,” Severyn intones, and she feels the warmth rise higher and higher yet.

The rest is left to rich, cold silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Night Mother is known in Morrowind as Severa Magia.
> 
> "The Night Mother was once a mere mortal, a Dark Elf woman who lived in a small village once located where the city of Bravil stands now, in the Imperial Province of Cyrodiil. She was a respected member of the Morag Tong and, like her fellow members, this woman made her trade as an assassin in service of the Daedric Prince Mephala. In fact, the woman held the title of Night Mother, reserved for the highest ranking female member of the organization." - The Night Mother's Truth, Gaston Bellefort


	8. The Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little peek into a morning at the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, and the arrival of a contract.

The rhythm of Sanctuary work came easier to Severyn after her meeting with the Night Mother. Slowly but surely, she cracked the shell of her fears and spilled herself open into the arms of the Brotherhood. They, in turn, embraced her with the love only a Family borne in blood could bear. She woke, slept, trained, ate, played among them--every moment spent was a moment not alone. The wholeness that evaded her for years came ever closer with the bonds of her new family. Severyn was filled with purpose not fueled in icy vengeance, but in love.

Her days always started early, at the brightest touch of dawn she would wake with Telaendril at her side--the Bosmer and the Dunmer sleepily helping each other robe themselves, splashing cool water from an iron basin on their tired faces. The roommates fell into a quiet ease, both following their own routines and giving each other a decent berth of space. Occasionally, they would chat when the sleep faded from their eyes, discussing what the day held for them. Other times, they would slip out of their rooms in silence; not unkind or apathetic, but when their minds were focused on duty, there were no words deterring them from their obligations. Today was one of those more quiet days. Both women, clothed in the plain black robes of their Sanctuary, walked down the corridor to break the morning fast with their Family.

The meeting space, with its broad table and wooden benches, always transformed itself at meal times-- pewter tankards and ceramic plates lined the edges instead of maps and parchment, contracts. Distant clanging of jars and pans could be heard from a kitchen room down the hall, and the voices of Gogron and Antoinetta bickering floated to Severyn’s ears. She could not help but smile slightly at the familiarity.

“Oh, you big lug! Can’t you crack an egg without getting shells in the pan? Void take you!”

“At least I can crack ‘em quick, unlike you an’ your bitsy hands! What good do those even do?!”

 

Severyn poked her head in the kitchen as the argument seemed to reach a peak. There, as usual, was the Breton rolling her eyes at the large orc who carried at least six broken eggs in one hand. Flour spattered the both of them in white patches, and the whole situation seemed rather unruly.

“Do you need any help?” she asked.

“Oh, no, Sev, we’ve got it. Just a little quarrel between siblings, eh?” Antoinetta grinned fiercely, showing sharp teeth as she elbowed Gogron in the ribcage. She could barely reach it, though, and had to point her elbow awkwardly upwards in order to do so.

“If you say so,” the Dunmer said doubtfully, furrowing her brows at the unexpected nickname. “Will breakfast be soon? Telaendril and I are already up, and I assume Teinaava and Mraaj’dar are training as usual.”

“Aye, it will,” Gogron said, dumping the eggshells into a waste basin and rubbing his injured side. “Bread and eggs alright for you?”

Severyn nodded in assent. “Sounds perfect. If you don’t need my help in here, I’ll make myself scarce.”

“Okay, then,” Antoinetta replied, and the Dunmer woman made a move to leave the kitchen area. “Wait, Severyn--I heard something from Ocheeva last night. Hold on, will you?”

“What, sister?”

“Well, see….I heard Ocheeva talking to Vicente about….” Antoinetta paused for emphasis. “Your first official contract for the sanctuary! Your very first big one!”

Severyn’s eyes glinted with excitement, a smile tugging at her lips. “Yes? And?”  
“They’re gonna give it to you today, I wager. Maybe after breakfast? I dunno, though. But isn’t that excellent? You’re gonna go on contract!” the Breton sang, clapping her hands. “D’you hear that, Gogron. Sister Sev’s gonna go on contract!”

“I heard ya, I heard ya. Congratulations, Sister,” the Orc called from the hearth, the crackling of cooking eggs accompanying his voice. “Antoinetta Marie, you oughta get back here an’ keep cooking.”

“Right,” the woman rolled her eyes, but patted Severyn on the shoulder. “Well, we’ll call you when breakfast is done, okay?”

“Thanks, sister,” Severyn smiled, softly, and left the kitchen.

 

She stopped at the Night Mother statue in the Sanctuary--only briefly, but it was enough to lend a comfort to her heart. Quietly, she spoke a brief prayer, touching the dais and the statue atop it in turn. As usual, she left a sprig of Nightshade on the marble from her collection of alchemy ingredients upon leaving. She couldn’t stay long; if Vicente would be talking to her over breakfast about her first, official “big kill”, it would be rude to show up to the meal late. Pressing a kiss to her fingers, she laid them at the base of the Night Mother’s silver form, and was thrilled to feel the familiar warmth of her love spread through her fingertips.

A clang of what she assumed to be Gogron banging a pot with his large hand rang through the corridors. The meal was going to be served, it seemed, and Severyn darted back to the meeting hall, finding a table filled with dark bread, soft cheese, and eggs waiting. Telaendril stalked in from the corridor right after Severyn, smiling briefly before sitting down at a bench.

“Morning,” she greeted, and the Dunmer bowed her head in reply.

“Were you in the training room? Did you see Teinaava or Mraaj’dar there?”

“Mmf,” Telaendril mumbled around a bite of bread she had just taken, and swallowed guiltily. “Yes, they ought to arrive soon. Wanted to get a little practice in while their minds are sharp, I suppose.”

“I don’t blame them,” Severyn said, and put some eggs and cheese on her place. Without much of a tongue, she had to be careful about what she ate-- choking was a danger that she couldn’t afford. She chewed thoughtfully. “And Ocheeva? Vicente?”

“I think they’ll be here in not too long. Do you have something to discuss with them?”

“Yes--Antoinetta told me that I’ll be receiving my first important contract today, and that Vicente and Ocheeva would tell me about it after breakfast.”

“Oh, well done! I look forward to hearing about it when you’re through. It’s about time you got a real contract,” Telaendril teased, bumping her shoulder into her roommate. “Here I thought I was going to carry you as dead weight forever.”

“Not a chance, my sister. Not a chance in Oblivion.” Severyn chuckled.

Soon the rest of the assassins arrived at the table, and the lively atmosphere persisted. Teinaava and Ocheeva sat beside each other, animatedly chatting, while Mraaj’dar sat towards the end of the table grumbling to Vicente, who abstained from the breakfast food. Instead, the vampire took deep sips of a red liquid from a mug, wiping away bloody drops from his lips every once in awhile. He cast a smile towards Severyn, raising his drink in greeting. Antoinetta daintily stuck small pieces of cheese and egg onto thin slices of bread and popped them into her mouth while regaling Telaendril with the process of making today’s breakfast. She occasionally cast irritated glances towards Gogron, who didn’t notice a thing. The orc in question shoveled mounds of food into his toothy maw, taking gulps of water after each bite.

He caught Severyn’s eye, winked cheekily and waited until his mouth was empty to sling a remark her way.

“We Orsimer tend to have big appetites. Gotta keep the food coming to be able to swing a maul or somethin’ around, y’know.”

“Of course,” she said, taking small sips of her own beverage. Chicory root, when roasted and brewed with water, made a bitter but satisfying drink of which she often partook. Being an alchemist had many benefits, including knowing about the non-standard uses of many herbs.

 

Eventually, the lot of them had had their fill of breakfast, and cleaned away the crumbs and leftovers together. Teinaava washed the dishes in a large basin, but not after complaining about the one time Gogron had been on dish duty.

“Broke all of our good plates,” he mumbled. “Never again letting that Orc near ‘em, mark my words.”

Severyn stifled her chuckles as she left the meeting room, and was soon gestured to by Vicente outside. Her heart flared with anticipation.

“Dear sister, I must speak with you.” he said. “Ocheeva would have stayed to talk as well, but she had urgent business to attend to with one of the initiates.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes. For now, you mustn’t worry about that. I’m to give you a contract.” Severyn’s heartbeat spiked in excitement. What would it be, she wondered. She couldn’t wait to prove her worth to her brethren.

“There’s a ship docked at the Imperial City’s waterfront-- known for selling stolen goods and smuggling them to various shops within the city. The captain is a Breton man, Gaston Tussaud by name. Rumor has it he came from High Rock in search of further wealth and business within Cyrodiil.”

“I am to kill the man, correct?”

“Correct,” Vicente purred. “Be warned, dear Sister, he is a pirate of renown. He will likely have several retainers at his side who will need to be avoided or….disposed of. Whichever you find most acceptable. Do you agree to take this contract?”

“I will not disappoint you, my Brother.” Severyn bowed deeply at the waist. Upon rising, Vicente clasped her hand in both of his bony ones.

“You will not, dear Sister.” Severyn couldn’t tell whether that was an order or a reassurance. Nevertheless, she took her leave with adrenaline quickening her blood. She would go to the Imperial City, the magnificent capital of Cyrodiil, and dispatch this Captain Tussaud.

_This shall be fun,_ she thought to herself, gathering some necessities. And then, soon after, she was off. Taking her leave from the Sanctuary, she walked in the light of the morning, bright and clear and new.


	9. The First Kill

Severyn could see the Imperial City from even a fair distance away. That was the beauty of it--the sheer size and elegance of the tiered stone that made up its walls called to visitors from inside Cyrodiil and beyond. How it must have felt for her mother’s mother, her father’s father to arrive through these gates from Morrowind by sea, to arrive at their new home. She hadn’t been here herself in several years--maybe during her stint working in an alchemist’s guild in Skingrad she had found herself on this city isle. She honestly couldn’t remember, and not knowing made the appeal of this new contract ever sweeter.  
In the sky, the White-Gold Tower shone like a beacon in the late afternoon, an obelisk of respite and welcome. Severyn urged her borrowed horse on forward, forward until the crisp air rushed at her in waves. After days of being on horseback from Cheydinhal, following the straight path of the Blue Road into the curvature of the Red Ring Road, she was grateful to see some sign of a city. There were only so many inns and small towns one could pass before growing bored of their quaintness, Severyn figured.  
  
It would be best to get to the main district before nightfall, spend time scoping out the ship at the waterfront before committing the murder. Perhaps renting a cheap room at the waterfront would be too suspicious, though. It would bring easy access to the Marie Elena, the vessel which held her target, but could just as easily cause questions to be asked of her. Severyn reached her hand in her pocket, surreptitiously picking out a sheet of parchment from her robes. Vicente’s spidery handwriting sprawled along the page that detailed her contract, but she could read its message clear as day. Kill Gaston Tussaud, rogue captain of the ship Marie Elena, and you will be rewarded. Do not be discovered.  
  
Severyn rode onward, through the verdant grasslands outside the capital city until the bends in the cobbled roads turned into white stone. A long bridge connected the Red Ring with the walls of the Imperial City, arching gently over the waters of Lake Rumare. The city walls grew closer and ever imperious, their parapets and spires tall enough to pierce the heavens, and eventually, she reached the great iron and wood gates of the Imperial City’s gates. A stable stood to its side, a sign emblazoned with “Chestnut Handy Stables”  rocking in the faint breeze. With a swift maneuver, Severyn slipped off of her horse and handed the reins to a stocky Imperial stableboy, along with a few septims. The boy pocketed them gratefully, and led her steed to a wooden enclosure.  
  
Two guards shuffled to pull the gates of the city open on her arrival, giving no extra attention to the Dunmer cloaked in traveler’s garb. Her appearance did not betray her assassin’s status, and for that she was glad. The only thing that possibly could have read as strange was the cowl around her mouth and nose, placed to cover her distinctive scars.  
  
The gates creaked outward, and she saw the streets of the Imperial City before her, winding in circular patterns. She adjusted her pack, and strode forth through the Talos Plaza. For such a grand city, Severyn though, there were not many people out and about on this day. Certainly there were those few milling about, a few vendors hawking their wares at passers by, and the occasional beggar jingling a tankard of septims. This seemed to be one of the more residential areas, Severyn realized as she passed along the narrow streets. It was beautiful, though, with topiaries and ivy-wrought columns of white marble arching as the city walls did. A large fountain burbled away in the center of the open space, clear water gushing and rippling into a basin. And it was peaceful, she added, wistfully. She tossed a septim into the pool of water for luck. _To a good, silent kill,_ she prayed, and continued along her way.  
  
She reached the market district, eventually, and found it much more lively. Evening had begun its slow descent—lanterns spat orange glow into the streets as the taverns they belonged to opened for the night. Shops closed, but bars threw open their doors, welcoming in travelers like her with the scent of warm bread and mead. Her mouth watered. She had a good handle on her rations for the two-day trip it took from an inn on the Blue Road into the capital, but she was famished and eager for real food. And a bed, came the afterthought, not a bedroll and a tent.  
  
Severyn found herself at the doorstep of one inn at the edge of the market district tucked into an alcove, where the beds were cheap and the food seemed edible enough. She had the coin to go to a more reputable inn, yes, but when one was ‘on contract’, the less people of high status that saw you the better. Beggars and low-class workers could be paid off into silence for a sum of coin; the rest were more difficult to bribe, and were subject to the whims of their own arrogance.  
  
A pretty Nord woman with straw-gold hair and a full figure welcomed Severyn to the bar, took the proffered coin the Dunmer gave to cover a meal and a bed. The tavern was just beginning to flood with customers; not good for someone who wished to remain unseen. She could have the option of blending into a crowd, but locking herself in her room for a silent supper sounded much more appealing than sharing company with rowdy barflies. So she thanked the woman for her meal, took a tankard of fresh water and a dish of stew, and headed to the bed she had been assigned.  
  
Severyn ate her supper quickly, listening to what she could of  the arguments or wild chatter of the patrons outside. The occasional strains from a lute floated in through the cracks in the plaster wall, and she found herself humming along despite herself. This evening, she would prepare the kill and under the cover of absolute night, perform her duties as a Dark Sister. And for a few hours, until the sweeping blackness overtook the jewel in the crown of the Cyrodiilic empire, she waited.

Unlike her first contract for the Dark Brotherhood, her poisoning equipment had been left intact and untouched by the Speaker. With the utmost care, she retrieved a few vials of pale liquid from her pack, reveling in their color and temperament. Severyn tucked them into a small pouch on her hip, as well as a few long needles. For the times when only one contract was necessary to murder, she would incapacitate the others with a more diluted poison. The mark would lose power in their limbs and be knocked unconscious for all of a few hours after a prick or two, enough time for her to come and go undisturbed.

When she re-clasped the scabbard containing the blade Lucien had first gave her onto her thigh, she could not contain a grin. Such power this simple black dagger contained, this mark of her family’s love. Her contract would be slain with this wicked thing, and she closed her eyes, shivered in anticipation for the kill to come. Tonight. Tonight would make it official.

She slipped from her rented room’s window without a sound, feet falling like a cat’s on the moonlit cobblestone. Creeping through the abandoned streets with only starlight and the scent of the sea to guide her to the waterfront—it was a feeling unlike no other. Surely, this was bliss given to her by none other than the Dread Mother and Father themselves. She’d have to remember to go to the shrine and thank them properly on her return to Cheydinhal. Lay nightshade blossoms still fresh with the contract’s blood on the dais, plucked in their prime as the killed man had been. _How wondrous a sacrifice_ , she thought, weaving her silent way through sector after sector of the Imperial City.

Eventually, the salt-water smell in the air became stronger, burning the inside of Severyn’s nostrils until she arrived, the dark wood of the docks stable under her feet. Midnight had came and went, and now the witching hour overtook the harbor and the ships upon it. Even their pristine white sails were mottled by shadow. Silent, she walked around the docks until she spied her prize: a schooner with an embellished, enameled nameplate on its side. _Marie Elena_ shone dully in the stars, the limp fabric on its masts rustling in the night wind.

 

Severyn smiled--all determined, gritted teeth-- and climbed aboard with all the grace that her Dread Father could have gifted her. She made the few-foot jump from dock to port; the only noises accompanying her movements were the faint creak of her footsteps on the wooden boards. The door that led to the ship’s interior was locked, and she clicked her teeth in irritation. Fishing out a small lock-picking kit from her pack, she summoned a small globe of light, only the size of a fingertip, to guide her hands. It sputtered, but glowed in the night like a small gem.

 

It took a few tries for her to fumble the lock open--the pitch-darkness of the docks was no help to her, even with the magelight--and she muttered a thankful prayer to the Night Mother that the keyhole wasn’t large enough to showcase the thin beams of her magic.

Vicente had been right in suggesting she be careful. Five guards, all burly sea-worn men, were gathered around a small table in the corridor playing cards and drinking. Luckily, she was safely hidden in shadow. She crept along the walls like a spider, clinging to the crags and whorls of old wood, weaving her way through the corridor until there was no possibility of her being discovered. She stifled a huff of laughter at the guards’ ineptitude. If they couldn’t sniff out an assassin, what use were they? People all over were desperate to get their hands on pirated gold, after all. Perhaps these men were more used to loud frontal assaults in broad daylight, the way they were carrying on.

The inside of the ship wasn’t as labyrinthine as she expected once she passed the first corridor, and it didn’t take ever so long to get to her target’s quarters. Who could have missed them? The dark oak of the door felt smoother than the rest of the wood used on the ship, a brass knob worked into the entryway as opposed to common hinges and pegs. This, surprisingly enough, was not a locked door. She pressed softly on the wood, praying it wouldn’t creak--her prayers were not answered, and a small creak escaped from the opening door. Cursing silently, she entered the room in the hopes no one had heard.

Luckily enough, there was no sign that anyone had heard any sound she had made--the only sound audible was the snoring of the Captain of the Marie Elena. The Breton male was slumped over a magnificent desk covered in parchments, fast asleep. Severyn placed her hand on her blade, the sensation of cold metal beneath her fingertips sending a prickling sensation through her veins. Captain Tussaud looked to have indulged greatly in alcohol before her arrival, she noticed. A near empty bottle of wine sat before his bowed head. How would it most benefit her to kill the poor sap, she asked herself.

Poison could work, but his head wasn’t tilted at the best angle to drip it into his ear. If she daubed a needle with it, she worried the prick of fit would wake him. But perhaps, if she stabbed him in the neck….yes, that would do. Unsheathing her blade, she took several tentative steps circling the man, making sure he didn’t wake.

She paused upon reaching the back of his chair, and took a deep breath inward.

 _Let the deed be done quickly,_ Severyn prayed, and drove the blade directly into where his neck met his skull.

Of course, he woke, she had expected him to jolt at the very least, and prepared for it accordingly. Fingers tight on the hilt, she pushed the knife forward, severing muscle, skin, aiming for his brain. Blood pooled upon her hands, on the desk, dripping down his shirt and onto the floor like spilled wine, and she delighted in it. His body jerked and twitched like a poorly strung puppet; Severyn steadied him with a forceful hand on his head, pinning him to the desk as she pulled the knife out. Like a perverse mimicry of his former sleeping state, the man slumped back onto his desk, red staining the parchments below his paling face.

If he wasn’t dead now, it wouldn’t be long until he bled out--or perhaps, the blood would pool in his head. Either way, the cold of the Void awaited him, and the Cheydinhal Sanctuary awaited her.

 _Sithis be praised on this night,_ she murmured, and fled. Aside from the corpse, the open patio doors of the cabin were the only evidence she had ever been there.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to business at college, I was unfortunately unable to get this uploaded sooner. I'm not as fond of this chapter, as it only details a kill, but keep in mind that chapters only devoted to killing won't be too often an occurrence. I plan to touch on further kills and detail them, at least the ones more relevant to the plot. Thanks for bearing with me, you all.


	10. The Training

A few weeks had passed since Severyn first received the proposition; she’d been on contract after contract from Ocheeva and Vicente and had no time to rest. A library of parchments and missives collected in her bedside cabinet over the days, and she would follow each to the letter. With every completed kill she’d move to the next, efficient, silent. But even so, the knowledge of the letter bored a hole in the back of her mind.

The contracts had taken so much of her time over the past while; it had been at least two or three months since her first, when she dispatched the captain of the Marie Elena. But even so, it was a memorable event, where the whole of the sanctuary came together to celebrate her truest induction into the Family. Speaker Lucien had been there, had applauded her with the rest of her siblings, and she had felt imbued with burning, glorious pride.

Severyn recalled it with fondness, more fondness than most that accompanied the myriad of kills she had completed. The first contract had been a mere doorway into the world of the Brotherhood--since then, she took on a multitude of contracts that often lasted for days on end, sometimes weeks. No longer was she to stay within the bounds of the city of Cheydinhal, no, like some sort of prized good she was exported, passed on from town to town. Killing had become as much a job as a ritual act, and while Severyn was happy to do her duty for Sithis and the Night Mother, she felt that recently, her work had been lacking. She found herself spending less time on each kill--though quick and efficient as always, it lacked the passion, the panache she had come to expect from herself. Severyn found herself wishing she had time enough to really perform an act that was truly worthy of Sithis and his bride.

When the Speaker sent the message, she had expected to be offended. Having trained for years upon years to be a successful poisoner, a successful wielder of blades, one would expect a personal invitation from one’s superior that tells them in essence, ‘you must be further taught, train harder” to be a blow to the conscience. But Severyn took it in stride, found herself  eager to learn from the Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood his secret deathcraft. The opportunity to hone her craft under such a leader, a man who was practically an incarnation of the void himself—she could not resist. After the weeks of eternally mundane contracts, here was something she could look forward to. Maybe this would bring that sense of glory back into her work.  
Severyn soon found herself walking towards Fort Farragut in the early morning. She had previously alerted Vicente of her plans, and he said he would stay her contracts for a day or so--passing them to initiates in her stead. When she found herself settled in the new schedule of training, she would pick such loads of responsibility back on her shoulders--that is, if she succeeded in convincing the Speaker to continue her training.

It seemed as though she had not left the Sanctuary early enough, though. Antoinetta Marie, slipping out of the shadows, had cornered her in a corridor as she approached the Black Door. The woman grinned at Severyn,  salaciously.  


“Off to train with the Speaker, hm?”

“You heard about the missive I received, did you?” Severyn had intended to continue down the hall, but was blocked by her Sister. Antoinetta stood, hands on hips, before her.

“Word gets around our little Family. Well-kept secrets, badly-kept secrets, things that aren’t secrets too. They find their way.”

“So it seems. I wouldn’t expect that Vicente would have told you, though, so I’m left to wonder where you heard this from.”

“Oh, would you believe a little bird sent by our Dread Father whispered in my ear?” 

“I would not, Antoinetta Marie.” Severyn raised an eyebrow.

“Then I cannot tell you anything but the truth, my Sister.” The Breton clasped her hands together and gave a mockingly rueful sigh. “A little crow perched upon my shoulder in the foyer and sang to me: Severyn Ulasi, beloved Sister of the Brotherhood must report to Speaker Lucien to receive further training.” At the last words she waggled her eyebrows. Severyn rolled her eyes, but felt the tips of her ears flush red at the implications.

“It’s nothing untoward, Sister Antoinetta. The Speaker wishes me to be more efficient in my work, that’s all. Who am I to deny his will?”

“Efficient? Pah,” Antoinetta scoffed. “You’re always out on contract and even Vicente has nothing bad to say about your work. You know how much of a stickler he is for precision. If you can get any more efficient I’ll eat my Void-damned hood.”

“You give me too much credit.” Severyn let a chuckle escape her scarred mouth, and she smiled—a small, secret thing—to her Sister.

“Divines, and you’re usually so uptight!” Antoinetta groaned, throwing a hand dramatically over her eyes. “That’s the first I’ve seen you smile since you got back to the Sanctuary, I warrant.”

“There’s no way that’s true.”

“Is so,” the Breton retorted, petulantly.

“You jest, Sister. I don’t believe it.”

There was a pause, and Antoinetta's brows furrowed for a moment, as if she was going to drudge up an amount of evidence for Severyn's manner. But then, like the sun peeking behind a stormcloud, Antoinetta's mouth curved into a catlike smirk.

“I do jest, indeed. But tell me the truth, that it made you smile more.” 

Severyn snorted at the ridiculousness of the whole situation, but couldn’t help her a grin from widening across her face. She attempted to hide it behind a hand, but to no avail. After a moment of Antoinetta’s gleeful crowing at her 'finally expressing emotion', she began walking again towards her destination.

“I really must go, Sister, I can’t keep the Speaker waiting any longer. Send my regards to the rest if you see them.”

“Will do, will do.” The Breton girl bowed cheekily in reply. “Have fun _training._ ”

Ignoring the final remark, Severyn proceeded down the hall, out the Black Door and into the brisk morning air of Cheydinhal.

* * *

 

Autumn was beginning to take hold of the country--the Dunmer felt it in each inhale of the cold in her lungs and underfoot, where moss and leaves intertwined in the undergrowth. The city gates bent to her will and she passed through, into the forests outside of Cheydinhal. She took step after step through patches of leaves, some sodden with morning dew and others crunching satisfactorily under her boots. The morning sun shone through the ones left on the trees, dappling the path before her with gold and orange hues. Severyn moved quickly, focused on arriving at Fort Farragut on time, but she wished to enjoy her meditative walk through the forest all the same. Going on contracts for days on end and working mostly during the night left no time for natural pursuits. Perhaps there would be time to spend like this after training began, she thought. Maybe if all went well, she would be able to return to this state of grace. A few flickering bolts of anxiety scorched through her stomach and into her veins, but she ignored them. Training would go well. She would not disappoint him. She would not disappoint _anyone_.

Fort Farragut loomed over her like it had when she had approached it all those weeks ago; telling Speaker Lucien the trials and tribulations of her first kills. When she had, in a flurry of pain and utter horror, fled into the arms of her Mother. The Night Mother had not spoken to her, ever, save that one dream. It was possible that it wasn’t even the Night Mother at all, in fact, just a phantom of Severyn’s own weary mind. But there was no denying that maternal warmth that came to her in bursts when she knelt at the altar, spilled her secrets and offered sprigs of poisonous herbs.

Severyn entered the fort cautiously, making sure to avoid the tripwires and traps again--she knew where they were placed now, and if Lucien had any sense at all, he wouldn’t have moved them right before her arrival. Luckily, she made her way through the corridors without getting her foot stuck in one, and when she heard the Dark Guardian’s bones creak in  greeting, she bowed her head politely in return. Familiarity was a luxury few assassins could afford, so she would make the most of it while she could. But she had been brought here for a different purpose, a greater one. She wondered how familiar it would truly be.

* * *

 

She found Lucien waiting for her in the living room of the fort; the furnace crackling merrily and casting a dim glow on the Speaker’s features. Though it was morning, the inside of the fort was mostly dark--sunlight only shone in through small windows in the stone walls, placed high up near its ceilings. Severyn was surprised to see he wasn’t wearing his typical black Speaker’s garb, but a common linen shirt and dark trousers. He looked remarkably casual, but his demeanor remained strict. 

“You arrived earlier than I expected.” he said.

“I apologize if I’ve intruded,” Severyn replied, ducking her head. His missive had been outstandingly vague in regards to time; the Speaker had merely said for her to come to Fort Farragut early in the day.

“No, you misunderstand me. I appreciate your promptness.” Lucien said, giving her a brief onceover. His arms moved from their crossed position to down at his sides as he relaxed his posture. The woman stepped further into the living space, pulled her hood down around her shoulders.

“I am to train with you, then.” she started, tentatively. “Would it be rude of me to ask for more details on the matter?”

“If you have a specific question, I’d prefer you ask it.” He sat down on one of the chairs near the furnace, and gestured for her to do the same.

“What does this training entail, exactly, Speaker?”

“I am aware of your proficiency with both blade and poison. However, I note that within your contracts you have not engaged in active combat, but instead approach your victims from the shadows.” the man mused.

“Is this unacceptable? I thought that silent killing was my duty as a member of the Dark Brotherhood.” Severyn frowned, making her scars twitch downwards slightly.

“Not unacceptable in the least, dear Sister. Your work since your recruitment has shown significant dedication, and your marks are executed well. However,” he began, and pressed his steepled fingers to his lips in thought. “If you plan on continuing your rise through the hierarchy of our family, which I assume you do-- you will need to further your studies. I offer you an opportunity to do so. To train under your Speaker, the highest-ranking resident of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary.”

“Of course, and I accept, my Speaker.” she said, and bowed her head.

“For that I am thankful. Otherwise, it would have been a mark of arrogance--and stupidity--against your previously spotless record.” His voice held a note of contempt, and Severyn was left to wonder--had there been initiates who had refused his offer? Had there even been other initiates to receive training before her?

“Yes, but few.” he replied, coolly, and Severyn startled. She had spoken that last question aloud, not realizing it in the depths of her thought. “Those who have shown their dedication to this Family and have proved their worth beyond a measure of doubt.”

At his words, she felt a wash of pride over her heart. Finally, after years of living in relative anonymity, here in this Sanctuary were people who appreciated her work. Her face colored slightly as she basked in the implied praise.

“Now, if you don’t have any more questions, I’d prefer to begin your training.” Lucien stood abruptly, walking towards a corridor leading out of the main room. He cast a glance back at her still seated form, somewhat impatient. “Leave your cloak here, and follow me.”

Severyn quickly untied the dark garment and leaving it on the chair on which she had sat. Beneath it, she wore clothes she had worn while training previously-- a linen blouse, breeches, and boots made out of soft, dark leather. As soon as she had done so, she leaped from her seat to walk in the Speaker's shadow.

* * *

 

She followed the man through the twists and turns of the stone fort. It only took a few moments until he stopped abruptly before a wooden door. With one hand on the latch and the other on the heavy front, he swung it forwards--striding into the dark room with an air of familiarity.

“We’ll train in here from now on. that is, if you do well today.” he said. “If you would, Sister, light the torches.”

Severyn spied a smattering of wooden fixtures bracketed on the walls--she couldn’t quite gauge the width and breadth of the room in the dark. His comment on her continuation of training relying on today’s performance sent a shudder of foreboding through her. All the same, she sent out a few small flames in the direction of the torch sconces, praying he didn’t notice her sudden apprehension. The room lit up within a few moments, and as the torches flared with firelight, Severyn was able to finally discern the details. It was wide and built of stone as all the rest of the fort, but had no furniture save for a long wooden bench at the farthest end, against a wall. A few weapon racks holding a variety of blades--daggers, short-swords and a few longswords--were braced against one another at the entrance of the room; some with buttons blunting the tips, others sharp and deadly. The floor was lined with straw pallets as padding, meant for breaking falls or greater injury, she assumed. Aside from all the weaponry and padding, there were no decorations--the whole atmosphere was rather plain, likely so one would put their focus into their training.

The woman stood at the entryway, hand braced on the doorframe, until Lucien beckoned her to follow him into the training room.

“We’ll start with daggers, as you need little training with those. You spent seven years with a bladesman as your tutor, correct?

“Yes, in Skingrad.” Severyn replied. “Under an Imperial man. Master Veritus Sibarius.”

“I believe I know of him.” Lucien said, as he plucked a blade from its scabbard and tested its weight.  “If I recall correctly, there was an operation to recruit him into our family, many years ago. Long before he was your teacher.”

Severyn gawked at the Speaker, unable to hide her amazement. “Veritus Sibarius was almost a Dark Brother?”

Lucien chuckled. “You are surprised? A man with that much talent for weaponry would have caught our eye immediately. Ask Vicente, perhaps he’ll tell you the story.”

“I---I suppose I will, then. Void take me,” Her words trailed off, and she rubbed her forehead, reeling. “Master Veritus as a Dark Brotherhood assassin. Unbelievable.”

“Do not take my word for it, but I believe he declined the offer.”

“He declined?!” the Dunmer squawked, voice losing its formality.

“Again, this is all from memory. You will have to ask your Brother in order to get more...vivid details.” Lucien’s eyes sparkled with mirth as he took in Severyn’s utter shock. “But yes. I believe he already had a family to attend to at the time, and therefore did not wish to join our Brotherhood.”

“I...I would be lying if I wasn’t pleased, since I was able to train with him, but I cannot help but feel we’ve lost a true asset.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. We have his student, at least.” The Speaker finally decided on a blade, picking it and one that looked just like it from its place in the weapons rack. He tossed one scabbarded dagger to Severyn, and she caught it in both hands.

“This one should do nicely,” he said, and strode over to the straw-padded area. Severyn followed, and her breath hastened with anticipation. Now, the training would truly begin.

“Before I begin to broach new subjects, I wish to get first hand knowledge of your skills.” Lucien twirled the dagger absently between his fingers as he spoke--it was such an elegant movement, but he seemed to do it effortlessly. “Though I witnessed your murder of Rufio and the innkeep and found it pleasing, that is not nearly enough to gauge your abilities. No, I want something else from you.”

He stopped twirling the blade, pointed it at Severyn’s heart. Though he was a few feet away, she felt the intent of the action as if the dagger itself was piercing through her ribcage. In all senses of the word, he was formidable--even speaking casually to her as he had before, there was an air of power that lingered behind his every action. Even as an experienced killer, she felt the beginnings of fear stir within her stomach, to be faced with such an adversary. Severyn swallowed them, hard.

“I want you to try and best me in a fight. The blade tips are blunted, but they can still injure you if you are not careful.”

The woman before him nodded silently, taking in his direction, and Lucien continued.

“The first of us to be compromised--that is, placed in an inescapable position--wins. There is no reward if you do, but it will affect my decision in furthering your lessons.

“Finally, I do not expect you to succeed, but I expect you to try. Do not attempt to “go easy” on me in some misguided sense of respect. Attack me as if I were your contract. Do you understand me, Sister?”

Severyn placed a hand on the hilt of her dagger. She drew it slowly from its scabbard, watching the torchlight glint off of the blade. Taking a sturdy stance instilled in her from seven years of practice, she finally spoke.

“I understand, my Speaker.”

“Good,” he said, slowly, as if savoring the single word. “Let us begin.”


	11. The Fight

She could not have expected the ferocity which Lucien struck at her--Severyn had expected him to be quick, yes, but he attacked with a deadly finesse the likes of which she had never seen. Like a bird of prey swooping from the heavens, he approached her, bearing forward with his dagger drawn. Divines forbid she ever be on his bad side, she thought briefly, as she dodged his first strike. It was a sharp, testing jab near her chest, which she aptly sidestepped. The knife in his hand retreated but soon returned, slashing the air before her--Severyn felt the air itself part. She stopped that attack with a quick move of her own dagger, and the sound of metal on metal pierced her eardrums with a deafening clang.

 

“Such movement...befits a Speaker,” she breathed, as she withdrew her blade. Severyn stepped backwards, carefully, waited for Lucien to either reply or advance. Instead, he gave her a somewhat disappointed look.

“Did you think I would not be well trained? Ignorance does not become you, sister.”

“No, not that--” she mumbled, and darted towards the Speaker again, aiming a blow to his chest. He deflected again with ease, and used the force of her strike to knock her hand away. Severyn was still close--he steadied his stance instead of trying to stab at her, grasping the hand on the hilt of her knife and driving her blade toward her ribcage. 

With a grunt, she twisted her wrist around his grip, stumbling backwards. 

“It isn’t if...I expected you to not be well trained. You’re just…”

“Better than you thought?” A wry grin twitched the corners of his mouth as he approached again. He struck her in the rib with the pommel when she barely avoided getting a slice across the belly and she winced. “I would hope so.”

Like lightning, he leveled blows at her--some landed, causing little bloody scratches over her skin, and some didn’t. She parried what she could; knocking his blade aside only did so much. Lucien was relentless in the truest sense of the word, kept driving forth like he aimed to kill. The blunted tip of his knife pushed ever closer, no matter how she batted it away. 

The woman thrust her dagger at him, grazing his chest, and he smiled with gritted teeth.

“Good, good. Do that again.”

She tried, but he laughed in her face outright when he blocked her strike. 

“If you can,” he amended, and Severyn would have rolled her eyes at his goad if she had not been so focused.

 

Their hands met in a flurry of silver and iron sparks, again and again, each quicker than the last. She would slash at his stomach only for him to duck backwards and throw her off balance. He aimed one choice blow at her shoulder, and it connected. Even with the practice blade, a blossom of pain bloomed at the injury, and Severyn growled. This man was making an utter fool of her. 

With renewed vigor under the threat of further pain, she ended up landing another small blow on Lucien’s upper arm, watched a thin line of blood well under his linen shirtsleeve. It didn’t occur to him, and he continued to attack her, knife like a cobra biting. She knew better than to ask if he was alright.

Before she could rest on her laurels, she felt a cold, white pain spread over her chest, a sudden horrid lack of breath. The Speaker had driven the rounded pommel of his dagger directly into  the center of her ribcage. No amount of grappling or dodging could have avoided it, she thought distantly. Severyn stumbled, wheezing, nearly doubled over at the pain. Lucien didn’t stop, approaching her with something akin to murder in his eyes.

_ This is just training, _ she told herself as she tried to regain her composure.  _ He doesn’t actually want to kill me. That would break a tenet, wouldn’t it _ ?

 

He descended upon her unexpectedly, grabbing the front of her shirt in an iron grip, and pushed her back until the cold stone of the wall hit her shoulders. It was a forceful move; more blooms of pain spread up her lower back at the unceremonious treatment. Lucien stood ever close; she looked up and saw dark eyes boring into her, the beginnings of a self-satisfied grin on his face. She still couldn’t catch her breath.

“Is--is this what you wanted to teach me?” Severyn asked, barely managing the words through choking breath.

He didn’t answer straight away, eyes blazing with the adrenaline so frequently found in a fight. The gaze he leveled at her was all consuming, all shadow and bright brown fire. Before she could comprehend it, she felt fear pulsing through her veins, frigid and paralyzing.

He lifted his dagger in a smooth, liquid movement--one she prayed she could learn if she survived this.

“ _ Want _ to teach you, dear sister. This is what I  _ want _ to teach you.” he said, voice soft yet venomous. 

The edge of the knife brushed against her throat; Severyn could feel the ice of the metal meet the ice in her veins.

“And you have  _ ever _ so much to learn.” 

_ There is something mocking in his tone, _ Severyn thought, and some of that fear chips away at the realization. Even as that blade is leveled at her neck, even as his voice incites utter anxiety, she feels irritation. _ How dare he assume that she was but a child before his teachings? _

Severyn forced herself to inhale, and felt her insides thaw. _ How dare he assume that she knew nothing?  _ She trained for seven years with a man who could have been in the Brotherhood. Seven years of brutal work, bruising and callouses, all for this man to smirk at her? Mock her? She respected the Speaker, of course she did, but this--she couldn’t bear it, this utter devaluing of her skills.

 

“What... is it you...that you want me to do?” she asked, between wheezing breaths. Lucien again, didn’t speak immediately. He paused, thoughtfully, but kept the blade still pressed to her jugular.

“Admit that you’ve lost, sister.” he said. “You’ve shown your worth, but you need practice. I offer to raise you to my level.”

Something vindictive spiked inside Severyn’s stomach, bitter as bile.  _ As if I’m not on a level of my own? _

“And if I refuse?”

“Does a Brotherhood need a sister that questions authority in such a manner?” he asked, and she couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. 

That was the last straw. The bitter wave of energy that had thawed the fear screamed in her head. No one threatened her link to her new family, no one threatened her skill in such a dismissive way. No one. Not the Speaker, not a Brother, not a Sister. If he wanted her to train, she would train harder than anyone would before. If he wanted to teach her, she would learn. But she would not be condescended to like some initiate that never picked up a knife, would never stoop to a level.

Severyn inhaled, deeply, letting this new feeling wash over her. She pressed her back ever closer to the stone behind her, fists clenched. A whisper of space between her throat and Lucien’s dagger. Her eyes closed for one fraction of a second, and then she looked up again. Her eyes met those of her Speakers, the crimson and coal of a newly set fire. 

“I refuse,” she whispered.

Before the man before her could look confused at her reaction, the leg that had been bent behind her against the stone drew upward in a line, making direct contact with the Speaker’s stomach.

 

An awful, wheezing grunt expelled itself from the man as her knee connected with his gut, and Severyn revelled in it, for one single moment. Lucien stumbled backwards, a small movement, but it was enough. With all the force she could muster, Severyn pushed herself forward from off the wall, and dove directly at the man before her.

She hadn’t expected it to knock him off his feet, but she would thank the Divines for small mercies in the future. He fell backwards, limbs akimbo, and she rushed forward, toppling him over fully. Lucien landed with a loud thump on the straw padding of the training floor, and Severyn atop him. Legs framing his chest, she knelt above him, and pressed her blade against his neck, just as he had done to her. Her brows were furrowed; furious determination gleamed in her eyes. Again, their gazes connected, with hers obscured slightly from the halo of silver hair around her face.

“Admit.” she growled, and the single word burned her tongue with vindictive fire. Her voice was low, raw from coughing. The knife pressed slightly closer into his skin.

“Admit what?” the man below her asked, hoarsely, but he already knew. His adam’s apple bobbed with his breath under the blade; Severyn could feel the movement of his rushing pulse.

“I’ll learn from you. I’ll learn what you teach.” she continued, and the nails of the hand that weren’t holding the knife were dug into his blade-wielding wrist. “Admit you’ve lost. Admit I’m worthy of your time.”

“And if I don’t?” Lucien asked, voice mocking, but his eyes were genuine. They burned black fire into her; he had the same look of months ago, when she traced her scars onto his face. Interested apprehension.

“Does the Brotherhood need a Speaker that can be cowed so easily?” Severyn asked. She leaned closer, an all-tooth smile on her face. The scars on her mouth stretched her smile widely as to be uncanny.

Lucien matched her grin with one of his own, a satisfied one that did not match the current situation he was in. A low, easy chuckle slipped from his lips.

“If I did not choose to let myself be cowed at this moment, I would not have let you done so. All of this is a training exercise.”

“I doubt, Speaker, that you planned your eyes to look so shocked when I kicked you.” she retorted from above him.

His eyes narrowed slightly, and he was certain she had noticed. Nevertheless, he spoke again.

“I was made Speaker of this Brotherhood for a reason, and at least a good portion of this station revolves around my ability to plan.”

“Did you plan to fall like an initiate? Was that part of your master design?” 

That seemed to strike a nerve, and he made an annoyed sound low in his throat. He moved under Severyn in an attempt to throw her off of him, but the Dunmer woman remained steadfast, legs and knife locked in place.

“Compare me to an initiate and find yourself out of a job, Sister. I’ve spent over ten years longer than you in this very position.” He snarled. “Let me up.”

“And one would have thought that having ten years advantage would prevent such a nasty fall.” Severyn said. Perhaps she was pushing the line a bit, but she felt it was deserved.

That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Lucien’s free hand seized Severyn’s in a harsh grip, fury glowing in his eyes. She could almost feel the bones in her wrist shift, and she grit her teeth in discomfort.

“Let me up this instant. I won’t tell you again.” His voice was deadly serious, more so than previously, and Severyn sighed heavily, as if personally grieved. She rose from her perch atop the Speaker, and stretched languidly. Though she had moved away from the man, she kept her gaze trained on him, daring him to move.

 

Lucien got up from the ground, and dusted his clothes off. There was still a hefty amount of irritation in his face as he did so, but the burning rage was gone. 

“Your dagger. Give it here.” he said, sternly, and opened his palm.

She complied, placing it in its scabbard and passing it hilt first to the Speaker. The moment of disrupting the status quo was over.

He took her blade quickly, and placed both of theirs back in the weapon rack. Lucien turned to face her again, and it seemed that he only just realized he had been scratched during the fight. The man ran a finger over the small cut in his arm, wiping a thin line of blood away and huffed at the sight.

“Come back in two days time. We’ll begin training then, if you’re amenable.” It wasn’t a request. He knew she’d accept the offer, and saw a flare of eagerness in her eyes as he spoke.

Severyn nodded, listening readily. 

“We’ll continue your study of the blade until further notice.”

“I understand, Speaker.”

Lucien almost laughed, but refrained from doing so. She had harangued him about falling not a few minutes before, didn’t let him move from the ground until she willed it, and now she was back on her ‘respectful assassin’ behavior? 

“Be early as you were today.” he finished, and strode out of the room without any further words. 

Severyn watched him leave, watched the smear of blood on his shirtsleeve, and faintly, the impression of her nails upon his blade-hand.

“I will, my Speaker.” she said, to the empty air, and extinguished the torches.

 


	12. Ocheeva's Summons

“You’ve been hunched over that alchemy set for how many hours now, dear sister? You ought to take a rest.”

Severyn had indeed been nestled in the Brotherhood’s alchemy nook for quite some time when Ocheeva had passed her by. Puffs of steam rose from a pot of boiling water, causing the air around her to be mired in fog. A gleaming glass alembic and retort bubbled with a myriad of alchemical herbs and oils. Severyn pushed a glass bowl in beneath the distilling liquid as it dripped down slowly. The Dunmer sighed heavily, but did not move from her position.

“I’ll be but a minute, Ocheeva.” she replied. “Is that alright?”

“It’s not about me, Sister--you keep sitting like that and you’ll throw out your back.” The Argonian woman chuckled, a throaty thing as rough as the frills on her neck. She pulled her black robes tighter around her scaled form. Severyn tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear before she turned to look quizzically at Ocheeva.

“Did you need me for something, though? I don’t often see you near the alchemy station.”

“Sharp as ever, sister, you’re sharp as ever.” Ocheeva smiled with sharp teeth. “I wanted to speak to you a while. You’ve been with this Family for a while now, and I thought it best if I checked in, or something of the sort.”

“Have I shirked a contract? Done something to displease the Night Mother?” The Dunmer’s eyes cast around the wood and dark stone of the Sanctuary walls.

“No, no, no!” Ocheeva’s brow-plates and voice both rose in concern. “No, Severyn, you’ve been doing all we ask of you. I am certain our Dread Father smiles upon you from the black of the Void.” The Argonian woman pulled a wooden stool from its resting place near a stack of alchemical texts. The bookshelves around it wobbled slightly, disturbed, but did not fall. “I really do just want to check in with you. See how you like living here. Talk with you a bit.”

“Alright,” Severyn murmured as she stirred a few drops of a mysterious liquid into the pot of water. The liquid beneath turned a pale lavender, and frothed wildly until she dismissed the flames beneath the pot with a wave of her hand. She bottled the liquid into seven thin vials, setting them aside, and turned to face Ocheeva. 

“Let’s find a more comfortable place to sit, shall we? I’m afraid the fumes of your work may get to my head.” the Argonian woman chuckled, gesturing for the Dunmer to follow her out of the room.

“I hope not,” Severyn replied, lips quirking in a smile. “Those fumes can be deadly if one does not take the proper steps to avoid them.

“You have, I assume,” Ocheeva commented, as she led Severyn to a small yet cozy room down the corridor. A crackling fireplace heralded their entrance, lighting the way to a small table and set of distinguished looking wooden chairs.

“A few wards to purify the air generally do the trick. It’s a little known secret in the poisoner’s arsenal.”

“Lucien did tell me you worked with a poisoners guild for seven years before joining us,” The Argonian sat down in one of the chairs and motioned for Severyn to do the same. “What drew you into the poisoning career?”

“I’m sure that the Speaker also told you that my mother was an alchemist. I picked up the art after my mother taught me the basics; I studied under her roof.”

“Yes, but why poisoning specifically? You could have gone the route of a snake-oil salesman with your skills.”

Severyn raised an eyebrow. “I could have, but I prefer my potions and tinctures to  _ do _ something. They are not just for show.” She tapped a pack of vials strapped to her hip. “Drink a drop of most of these and you’ll be wracked with stomach-aches for hours. Drink ten drops and you’ll likely die in that time.”

“If you drink a vial, though?” Ocheeva asked, steepling her fingers as she leaned forward, humor glinting in her reptilian eyes.

“Drink a vial whole and you’ll be meeting Sithis in the Void before the hour’s up,” Severyn smirked. “There’s no reason to become a salesman of useless potions if mine work perfectly well.”

“Noted, sister.” Ocheeva hummed. “But may I return to my original request? I wished to talk to you about how you’ve been settling in.”

“Ah, that,” Severyn nodded, running a finger over her scarred lips. “Go ahead, then, if you will.”

“Normally, Speaker Lucien would ask some of these questions in order to gauge whether the Brotherhood is using your skills correctly.”

“He’s busy, though, isn’t he?”

“Terribly. He’s been making room for your training, though, so I hear.”

“So you heard about that,” Severyn said, eartips flushing.

“He sees promise in you, no doubt. It’s been a while since he’s taken on a protege.”

“I think he said something along those lines when we first met for training.”

“So I am doubly flattering you, is that it?” Ocheeva rumbled with laughter.

“I--didn’t mean to say that, but--”

“Don’t worry, dear Sister. I jest. But truly, I am pleased to hear that you plan to ascend within our ranks. That you do not wish to leave us as soon as you get the chance.”

“Has that happened before?”

“Mmm,” the Argonian woman paused in thought. “We’ve had some problems in the past with cowardice overcoming our initiates--mostly younger ones. They stride in here after killing someone, usually a one-time event, and think the Night Mother has blessed them irrevocably.”   
“And then?”

“Then they get a real contract and all sense leaves them. If they complete it successfully, they come back whimpering like a dog, saying the Brotherhood is not for them. That ends one of two ways.” The reptilian woman raised two fingers. “One is that we let them leave if they haven’t done enough damage. Two, we kill them painlessly--we can’t have blathering about the Brotherhood get out of control, especially outside of the Sanctuary.”

“Which is the most common?” Severyn asked.

“The second, unfortunately.” Ocheeva sighed. “And if they don’t complete the contract successfully, it’s even more of a mess. We have to send someone in to clean up the problem--if the initiate dies, someone has to stage their body in a way that looks legitimate, take all of the insignia and everything that leads back to our Family off the corpse, and  _ then _ kill the target. It’s incredibly annoying.”

“It  _ sounds  _ annoying,” Severyn murmured, wincing.

“Don’t be too shocked if I request some poison from you one day for that very purpose. It’s been a while since we’ve had someone specializing in poison-craft in the Sanctuary, aside from Lucien.”

“The Speaker uses poison? I didn’t know.” Severyn’s eyes widened in interest.

“Poisoned apples, actually. You haven’t seen the barrel of them in his fort?” Ocheeva looked honestly surprised.

“No, I….have not. He uses  _ apples _ ?  _ Truly _ ?” She glanced incredulously at her copatriot who nodded. “That seems...unorthodox.”

“He does indeed. Hm, I suppose he didn’t think to tell you that as you already have experience in such things. I wonder.” Ocheeva mused. “Never mind that, though, I’ve things to ask you about.”

 

Severyn settled back into her seat, watching the fire flickering out of the corner of her eye. “Please go ahead.”

“How have your Sisters and Brothers been treating you? From what it looks like, all has been well.”

“Oh, yes, definitely,” Severyn let a small smile pass her face. “I’m fond of them. Telaendril has been a very polite roommate, and Gogron and Antoinetta Marie are as eager as always.”

“Have you seen much of Mraaj-dar? He tends to keep to himself.”

“Every once in a while I see him, but he seems to not care for me much.” The Dunmer woman’s mouth straightened into a frustrated line.  _ If ignoring her at every turn could be described as not caring, that is. _

“He is….like that to all of us, really. Mraaj-dar is an excellent mage, but prickly as a Nirnroot. That’s not abnormal.”

“I see.” Severyn’s brow furrowed in thought.  _ Apparently he was like that to everyone. _

“And Teinaava has been decent to you?”

“When he’s not busy training, he’s been perfectly fine to me.”

Ocheeva nodded and a small, amused smile quirked her lips.

“Good, good. I’d expect no less of my brother. He’s bullheaded, but that comes with the territory of having brothers, you know.”

“I--I don’t, really.” Severyn averted her gaze, uncomfortably. “I do have brothers, but they are far older than I and out of contact. They all have wives and children by now, as far as I know.”

“Oh, I see. Are they in Cyrodiil? Morrowind?” Ocheeva looked up from her clawed hands interestedly at Severyn.

“Both, as I can recall. I believe that one lives in Leyawiin and the other in Almalexia, from what Mother told me in the past, carrying on my late father’s silk and fabric business.”

“Hm, interesting,” The Argonian hummed, and tapped on the wood of the table tunelessly. “And Vicente has said he enjoys your company as well, so that’s to be expected. He’s a good man--well, a good vampire.”

“He’s been very accommodating,” Severyn nodded in agreement. “I’ve received some feedback on contracts from him on multiple occasions.”

“All good, I assume?”

The Dunmer woman blushed. “I don’t wish to brag, or anything of the sort, but I believe so.”

“The contracts, then. Have they been going well?”

“As well as can be expected,” Severyn replied. “I can only hope that my actions please the Night Mother and my Dread Father.”

“I’m sure they are pleased, sister. We all heard about your first few from Vicente; the Marie Elena, dropping the head on Baenlin--”

Severyn winced at that last one. She hadn’t wanted to remember that--though she had fulfilled the contract to Vicente’s preference, Severyn still had the noise of the mounted head dropping onto the Bosmer stuck in her head. The cracking of bones, the gurgling of his death rattles--all was ugly and drawn out, not like her usual kills. Bruma had been cold as the Void, not in a good way, and the crawlspace she had writhed through left splinters in her plainclothes for days.

Ocheeva seemed not to notice or care about her adverse reaction.

“He gave you a dagger from that one, didn’t he? He told me you received a bonus for that one--not just a coin one, either.”

Severyn nodded. “It’s in my pack, scabbarded. I haven’t trained much with it yet-- I  ought to get a...feel for the weapon before I use it to kill.”

“With our Speaker?” The Argonian’s voice was filled with wry amusement, which Severyn chose to ignore, instead nodding her assent. “Daggers seem to be your wheelhouse, so I’m glad he bestowed Sufferthorn on you instead of some enchanted axe.”

Severyn covered her mouth and wheezed in a sudden attack of laughter. “Void take me, I wouldn’t last long with that. I’d decapitate myself by accident--give something like that to Gogron.”

“Well, if Gogron gets a bonus payment for his stealth and receives something like that from Vicente, I’ll eat my tail.”

Another cackle expelled itself from Severyn, desperately trying to hide her laughter. Ocheeva’s eyes glimmered with good cheer as she stared at her dark Sister. “It’s good to have someone like you here in our Family. You have a good head on your shoulders.”

“And a good knife in my belt, I’ll add,” the Dunmer giggled.

“That too, sister. That too.”

 

Ocheeva stood from her seat, stretching her clawed and scaly arms beneath her Brotherhood robes. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer from your work. It seems as though you’re settling in enough. Aside from Mraaj-Dar, at least. He’s a lost cause to most.”

“Duly noted, Sister.” Severyn got up as well. “Is there anything else you wish to speak about? Anything you’d request from me?”

The other woman paused in thought. “Go talk to Vicente sometime. He keeps odd hours, but I recall him saying you asked him about our Speaker, once. He’d probably be happy to chat if you catch him in the Sanctuary.”

“I understand. I’ll pay him a visit soon enough.”

“Then, well met,” Ocheeva extended a talon to Severyn as she made to leave the cozy room. “It’s been a pleasure, Sister Severyn.”

“Same for you, Sister Ocheeva.” She bowed her head in reverence to the higher ranked assassin, but her heart glowed with contentment. Severyn really could get used to people calling her “sister.”


	13. The Sword

When she walked through the woods to Fort Farragut earlier the next morning, on her way to her training session, Severyn had guessed that the weather would turn ill. There was a distinct heaviness in the air, a dampness like an unwrung cloth waiting on the washing line. It was early, though, perhaps it was just some fog settling; such things were common during the late summer and early fall. The fallen leaves and the grass in the Great Forest were waxen, lush with dew as she trod over the overgrown paths. Severyn had walked this way many times--in the dark of the early morning to the warm glow of sunset, and every time in between. Though, not at late in the night, but she supposed it would be the same as morning, when the barest peek of the sun hinted behind the clouds and the air was chill. There had been a time when she needed a guidance through the forest, but now she was certain that if she were blindfolded she could make the trip in thirty or so minutes, no longer than usual.

She wiped the few leaves and stray grass blades that had clung to her boots before she entered the fort. Its stony balustrades were as they always were, looming and dark far overhead. Half-interested, she wondered if the Speaker ever went up onto those parapets--sniped down targets or something. It was an ambling thought, though, and she didn’t pay much mind to it. What she did pay mind to, however, was the distant rumble of thunder overhead and to the west--barely even a murmur of a sound, but her Dunmer ears pricked up slightly at the noise. Hope it passes soon enough, she thought to herself, and made her way inside the familiar fort.

Severyn extended a hand in greeting as she entered the main living space-- Speaker Lucien wasn’t there, usually he waited for her in the training hall. The Dark Guardian who happened to stumble into her path bowed its creaking skull and let her be. Good, she thought. I was never terribly used to it. Some things never quite got old, and having the long dead corpses of assassins enchanted to do the Speaker’s bidding was one of them. She draped her Brotherhood robe over a chair as always, leaving her in a tunic and deerskin pants fit for work. The fire in the furnace crackled, embers fluttering and spitting ash as the logs settled, and Severyn took a moment to inhale a whiff of woodsmoke. It lent a surprisingly homey atmosphere to the unyielding stone of Farragut.

Lucien met her in the training hall, where the torches were lit already. He had taken to whaling on a training dummy with a wicked looking blade, all edges and greenish black steel. She didn’t intentionally make her entrance known--it was likely he had heard her come into the hall anyway, and didn’t want to let up on his focus. Instead, she merely watched and waited. Lucien swung the dark weapon again and again, eyes narrowed in concentration, form impeccable. She envied him in some ways-- how could one not? The Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood Lucien Lachance had risen at such an age, been gifted with such talent by none other than the Dread Father himself, it seemed.  
His dark hair was tied into its familiar ponytail at the nape of his neck--a few loose strands hung loose before his face as he jabbed the blade at the dummy’s chest. Lucien took one moment’s pause to sweep them away behind his ear, backed away from the training post, and turned his head to the entryway of the room.

“Ulasi,” he said, bowing his head just slightly. “Ready to begin today’s work?”  
“Of course, my Speaker.” she responded. “But you’ve already started without me, it seems.”  
“Ah yes. I would apologize, but…” he trailed off, casting a glance to the sharp green-black sword in his hand. “A new weapon was gifted to us by a...benefactor, of sorts. It’s Orcish in make. Very sturdy.”  
“You thought to try it out before we met.”  
“Do you have a problem with that?” The man quirked an eyebrow.  
“You’re the Speaker--I don’t see why you’re asking me for permission.” Severyn replied.  
“Well spoken. Though it was a rhetorical question, and had you said yes, I would have executed you on the spot with this very blade.” Lucien went towards the weapon racks, beginning to shuffle through them with one hand.  
Severyn couldn’t help but spit out a laugh. “I highly doubt such an act of you, my Speaker. To have spent so long training me, only to kill me with your new toy.”  
He huffed, and Severyn couldn’t tell if it was from irritation or humor. Likely both.  
“Do you wish to try it?” he asked, extending the brackish sword to her. Lucien twirled it so that the hilt was towards her hand, the blade towards his heart. She felt a pang of jealousy--he made it look so easy-- but it was tempered by a due amount of shock.  
“Me? With that sword?” Her eyebrows shot skyward. “I… do you think I’ve earned such a thing?”  
Lucien snorted. “I didn’t ask you to murder the Emperor. I asked if you wished to handle this sword. You’ve had a significant amount of training already with blades. This is no different.”  
“If you’re certain--”  
“I am.” he interrupted. “Do you question my judgement?”  
“I--Speaker, I’m not saying that I don’t trust--”  
“Rhetorical question, again.” He shot back. “Will you try it, or must I sheathe it?”  
Severyn sighed and glanced at him warily. Was this some sort of trick? If so, she wouldn’t be completely surprised. Lucien had tried a whole host of those on her from the moment they met.  
But still, she felt the Orcish blade draw her in, like the gleam of a new toy on the New Life Festival day.  
“Fine.” she finally said. “I’ll try it.”

Lucien handed her the sword, hand grazing hers as he adjusted her grip on the hilt.  
“Have you used a scimitar before? It’s rather like that. Make sure you adjust for the curves on the blade. Don’t overcompensate and swing too roughly, so that you end up on the cutting edge and not the blunt parts.”  
“I understand, Speaker.” She tentatively moved her hand so that it fit the way he showed. “Like so?”  
“Yes, go ahead. Try it,” he responded.  
“Alright,” Severyn nodded, slowly. He stood beside her, watching her swordsmanship with an intense gaze as she swung it a few times. Lucien’s mouth tightened into a line, brow furrowing.  
“Your grip is too tight. If you keep on like that, you’ll strain your wrist. Here,” he said. He closed his hand around Severyn’s wrist, not painfully, but firmly--forcibly loosening it from the sword’s hilt. His fingers were surprisingly warm, and vaguely calloused from years of blade wielding. Surprisingly human.  
“Are you sure you practiced for seven years with a blade teacher?” Lucien asked, and Severyn could hear the barest hint of amusement in his voice. His fingers worked their way under her palm, lifting and turning her hand so that it more accurately fit the blade. She let him correct her.  
“Yes, but not with this sort of weapon,” Severyn retorted, coolly. “Where did you find an affinity for this kind of blade? I haven’t seen many of the sort in Cyrodiil.”  
“I’ve told you of my youth spent in Skyrim, haven’t I?”  
“Barely,” she frowned. Not nearly enough to know much, the unspoken words remained.  
“I learned from some men there, quite a time ago. They’re likely long dead by now, but the tradition remains. It stays with you, in fact, after a long time training. One’s body remembers the way.”  
One’s body remembers the way, Severyn thought. She remembered how easy it was to get to Fort Farragut, and the ghost of a smile warmed her features.  
“I’m ready, I think-- if you’re done correcting me?” His hand still rested over hers on the hilt of the Orcish blade, fingers just shy of tangled.  
“Of course,” he murmured, and she caught the glint of teeth in a sharp, sly grin before he turned away. “Have a try.”

Lucien stepped further back, out of the way of the sword’s reach as Severyn aimed a jab at the open air. The sword was heavier than it looked--the leather wrapped grip and viridian steel weighed at her dominant arm like lead. How had Speaker Lucien wielded it so easily? Severyn tried a slash, only to feel the Orcish blade move molasses-like through the air.  
Surely if she had been fighting an actual opponent, they would have gotten several killing blows at her by now.  
Damnable sword, she thought to herself. She had never been one for longer blades from the beginning--opting for knives, rondel blades, misericordes and the like. Easy to carry, easy to strike. This lug of a sword defeated her at every attempt, as if it had been actively fighting her.  
“This is a fool’s weapon,” she mumbled, ears turning red at her failed strikes. “Only a fool would wield this in battle.”  
“I disagree,” Lucien chuckled. “It really does take practice to use this sort of blade.”  
“It makes me feel like an initiate.”  
“In terms of this sort of weapon, technically, you are. I don’t expect you to be a master of something you just picked up.”  
“Sithis wept,” Severyn hissed at the sword as she again cleaved the air with a single, wobbling hand. “You’re sure this is the right gait? My grip isn’t off? I feel like I’ve made some sort of error.”  
Lucien sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before stepping towards Severyn and the Orcish weapon.  
“If I had known you to be so eager to learn this weapon, perhaps we should have gotten one earlier.”  
“I’m not eager,” Severyn retorted, brows furrowed in concentration. “I just want to try using it correctly, and then I’ll put the damnable thing back.”  
“The way you’re going about using it now, we’ll be here till the end of days. Give it here,”  
“No, I want to keep trying. Speaker, I want to get at least one, decent swing in before I give up entirely.”  
“Then I’ll show you what you’re doing wrong. Is that amenable to you?”  
“It is, thank you.” Severyn gestured with her other hand, loosely, at her sword hand.  
“..You really aren’t one for longswords, are you?” Lucien couldn’t help but prod her frustration.  
“Do I look like I am built for such things?” the woman groaned. “You know this. I’m the one you call on for daggers, for poisons. Not...cleaving.”  
“You don’t cleave with this blade, Ulasi.” Swiftly, Lucien sidestepped her and frowned. “Your hand is tense again. Relax it.”  
She did so, or attempted to do so-- when the Speaker clicked his teeth, irritated. He ran a finger over her knuckles. “Bring these up. Let the blade fall just here over your palm, and put your hand over it. Don’t clench your fist.” His directions were stern, but the words of a well-versed teacher. not a dictator.  
“Better?” Severyn adjusted her hand. He nodded in approval, but when his eyes moved over her stance, he frowned slightly.  
“Not quite. Your posture needs to be fixed as well.”  
“Of course it does,” Severyn muttered under her breath. The man before her briskly moved to her side, moving the hand that had once been on hers to her wrist, then to her forearm. She flinched, startled, as his grip firmed. He dragged her arm farther away from her center, and then paused.  
“With this sword, your reach is significantly extended in a way it is not when wielding a dagger. You can move further without having to protect your chest.” His fingers moved to her inner elbow, extending her arm and flexing it slowly. “Notice even when you don’t extend, how the blade covers a larger amount of area.”  
Severyn nodded silently, watching him correct her posture. He seemed to know exactly what needed to be fixed, she thought absently. So befits a Speaker.

He stepped back just an inch or so, taking note of her posture from farther away.  
“Your other arm--lift it at an angle, yes, like that. Use that for stability or defense.”  
“Is everything correct now?” Severyn inquired, but Lucien shook his head again. He crossed behind her-- she could feel the slightest breeze as he stood at her back. His focus bored into her, though it was intangible, it made her vaguely anxious. Breathing deeply into her diaphragm, as she learned in previous training, she calmed herself.

It was in vain, though--how like it was the Speaker to surprise her, apparently. Before Severyn had any inkling of it, he had rested one hand upon the small of her back, the other just below her ribcage. The warmth seeped into her tunic and into her skin, like drinking wine on an empty stomach. He pressed there slightly, insistently.

“Stand straighter,” he said, and if Severyn had not known he was behind her she would likely have run him through with that very sword. His voice was low, of dark timbre as always, but it was so much closer now, his breath barely whispering over the tip of her pointed ear. Her ears and cheeks became traitorously red, and she prayed to the Night Mother that he didn’t hear her breath quicken.  
“A--alright, then,” she mumbled, embarrassed, voice thick in her throat.  
She stood as best she could, the heat of his hands not assisting her composure in the least. His hands did not move immediately as she fixed her posture, and by the steady evenness of the breath at her hair, he had not moved his head either.  
The Speaker tapped the hand at her back, a casual movement. “Don’t lock your spine. I don’t need you unconscious on the training mats.”  
“Right,” Again, she breathed deeply, feeling his hand shift slightly under her exhale but not overtly moving.

He moved the hand at her abdomen, then, but very slowly--like a seam of warm magelight following a wand, it rested with its opposite at her waist. Her mind went suddenly and viciously blank, and it took every inch of trained composure not to wheeze out a breath of shock.  
“What--?” Severyn began, but was cut off by the stern focus of her Speaker.  
“Turn just so,” he murmured, guiding her angle slightly so that her stance was wider.  
“Like this?” she asked, faintly. Her hands were vaguely clammy, and her grip on the sword was faltering. She felt something brush against the curve of where her neck met her shoulder, and blinked rapidly. A lock of his hair had come free from his ponytail again, draping over her collarbone as he leaned his head next to hers.  
Lucien hummed quietly in response. “Very good. I think your stance has improved significantly.”  
“Oh,” Severyn said. “I’m….glad to hear it.”  
“Do you think you’re ready to try the sword again?”  
“I--suppose so.” she hedged, shifting the blade in her hand.  
“Good,” the man responded, voice smooth as a river stone. Languidly, unhurried, he moved his hands from Severyn’s waist, and stepped away from her.  
“Go ahead. Try again,” he said. Lucien’s eyes were dark as he watched her, but sparking with light, like fresh coals in a furnace.

-  
It took about two hours for Severyn to even start getting the hang of swinging that Orcish sword, interspersed with the same amount of regular training--using daggers (she ended up giving Sufferthorn a bit of use in that time), posturing and the like. After the end of those four hours, Severyn was exhausted. Not only had learning that unfamiliar blade taken a toll on her, but the general practice with Speaker Lucien had worn on her already tired limbs. She wiped beads of sweat off of her brow as she sheathed the blunted dagger she had borrowed for one-on-one combat.  
“Speaker, if it’s alright with you, I’ll begin making my way home,” She raised a hand tentatively, as if she were in school. This was a different type of learning, but old habits did indeed die hard.  
“Go ahead, then. You’ve done a lot of work this morning, and I expect you’re tired.”  
Severyn bowed her head, gratefully. “I am, truthfully.” She stuck the scabbarded dagger into its respective holding on the weapons rack, and the Speaker did the same with his own.

Looking at him out of the corner of her eye, Severyn noticed that Lucien looked rather tired as well. His hair had been swept back in a ponytail for the entire training session, but it looked a bit messier than it had when they first began. The Speaker’s eyes were a bit heavy, and his movements were languorous as he aimed to make his way out of the training hall. He favored his left arm--she assumed that was because she had aimed a rather decent blow at it earlier, and recalled it with pride-- but she hadn’t intended to do much damage if any. Either way, we’ve both had worse, she thought.

They had spent a long enough amount of time sequestered in the torchlit training room that Severyn had not heard the rhythmic rapping of rain on the stone ceilings of the fort. Here in the den, it was much louder, and much more menacing. She grit her teeth. She had been right about earlier; bad weather had certainly struck, she thought, as a booming roll of thunder swept overhead. The sky had turned the same color as an ill-healing bruise; dark purples with pale streaks of sulphur-yellow. Damn it all, she’d have to walk home to the Sanctuary in that.

She made her way to the door after slipping on her travelling cloak, pulling the hood as far over her pointed ears as it could go, and tightened her bootstraps. Severyn opened one of the nearby doors to the fort’s outdoors that Lucien kept hidden--he had shown her how to get in and out quickly-- but immediately balked.

In the four hours spent in the training hall, the outdoors had overflowed with rainwater. Huge streams of brackish water flowed downhill past her feet, and the rain coming from the sky looked no better. It was as if the world had turned upside down--the oceans and seas flooding the earth instead of simple thunderclouds. One--then two--garish blasts of lightning arced through the sky.  
With a heavy, aggravated sigh, Severyn walked backwards into Fort Farragut, and closed the door.

“Speaker Lucien?” she called out. “I’m afraid I’ll have to stay in the fort for a bit. The weather’s rather ill outside.”  
The man ambled in from another corridor, a towel flung around his neck.  
“It’s unlike you, Ulasi, to be swayed by a storm.”  
She grimaced at his derisiveness. “If I may be so bold, you haven’t seen this storm, Speaker.”  
“Is it so awful that a trained assassin cannot make the walk home?” he asked, snidely.  
“Half an hour while trudging through a watery hell? Forgive me for my bluntness, but absolutely not.”  
“Let me see,” he grumbled. The Speaker hadn’t changed out of his training garb, and it looked like he had only just begun to wash his face. He swung open the door, ready to walk outdoors and prove her wrong, but as soon as he did so a gust of sharp wind and rain forced it back closed.  
“Oh,” he muttered.  
Severyn gave him a pointed look, but left the words “I told you so,” unsaid. Saying something like that to the Speaker was a sure way to get murdered.

“I suppose….that you will have to stay here for a while.” Lucien eventually said, examining the back of his hand disinterestedly.  
“A few hours at the very least, in order for this damned storm to calm.”  
“And you can’t ride a horse in that weather, either, can you?”  
“I wouldn’t dare try it. I’ve seen stallions swept away by rivers less strong.”  
“I feel that’s an exaggeration of sorts,” Lucien said, but didn’t press the issue. Severyn took off her traveling cloak, glancing at the Speaker for approval as she sat down on a chair near the furnace.  
The man sighed quietly. “If you’re going to stay here for that length of time, you might as well make yourself comfortable.”  
“I...thought I was, Speaker.” Severyn gestured to the crackling furnace. Though it was a relatively barren room, filled only with scant wooden furniture, it was familiar.  
“You do realize that this isn’t an actual living space? It’s a foyer. A waiting area.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“I have….a living space that would be more….suitable for a longer stay.” He sounded vaguely defeated as he spoke, but nevertheless, Lucien walked back into the corridor from whence he had came. Severyn stood and followed as she had so many times before, leaving her dampened travelling cloak in the foyer.


	14. The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter actually comes with some incredible art made by my dear friend Sydney (Sydbeys on tumblr!) Please check out her work and give her as much support as you do to me!! 
> 
> http://sydbeys.tumblr.com/post/168511992492/a-bit-of-a-gift-for-afriendlycat-it-is

It seemed as if he was taking her to the training hall at first, but passed the heavy wooden door that heralded it. Suddenly, Severyn felt as if she was in wildly uncharted territory. Out of place. The halls seemed infinitely long, and she cast anxious eyes at the stonework.  
Lucien broke the silence, eventually—it couldn’t have been more than a few moments until he found the room he was looking for.  
“You thought I passed my time out there, didn’t you?” He had a wry smile on his face, but his eyes were genuinely full of mirth.  
Even so, Severyn bristled defensively. “There were some chairs and a furnace. I thought you were perhaps the minimalist type.”  
At this, the man gave an honest laugh.  
“The Speaker of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary doing his work in a barren room, Sithis forfend.” Lucien scoffed. “I’m not a priest or an ascetic, Ulasi.”  
He seemed to not notice her immediate clenching of teeth in irritation, instead swinging an oaken door open before her.  
“Come in, then.”

Severyn moved her gaze from the bland stonework into the newly open room, and was thrown immediately off guard.  
Past the door frame, past Lucien’s cloaked form was a rather tastefully decorated living space. All the furniture—and there was an amount more than the barren fort foyer she had been familiar with—was made of dark woods and deep navy blue fabrics. It was elegant, and fit him far better than an empty stone bench or two. A couch and few chairs sat before a table covered in neatly stacked books and rolled parchments, and just past those she could see a cold stone hearth. A few bookcases stood tall and regal along the walls, along with a small and simple tapestry hanging.

Severyn squinted at it, spying small threads of gold woven into varying shades of blue, creating a pattern not unlike brocade.  
“A gift,” Lucien said, noticing her intent gaze. “From a tailor in Bruma—the Brotherhood helped him avenge his wife’s murderer.” He stalked over to the hearth quietly, and leaned to light a flame within it. It soon smoked to life and the room was then bathed with gentle golden light.  
“You can sit down, you know.”  
His voice was less rough than it had been now that he was in his own room. It seemed calmer, perhaps, or more at ease.  
“Yes, Speaker,” Severyn said, instinctively polite as she took a seat on the couch, and Lucien snorted.  
“You’re so polite, it’s almost off-putting.”  
The Dunmer frowned slightly as she adjusted her posture. “I cannot help how I speak. And you’re the Speaker, so you deserve at least a modicum of respect.”  
Lucien turned back to her, eyes turning warm brown in the firelight.  
“Notice that I said almost. Almost off-putting.”  
Severyn looked at him, questioningly, brows raised. That was the first…relatively kindly thing he had said to her. Other than something involving her work, at least.  
“...Thank you?”  
The man gave her an odd look. Contemplative, as if he was about to say something, but decided against it. He waved his hand dismissively.

  
“I would be remiss if I didn’t ask you if you wanted anything to drink. I am not the most...experienced of hosts, shall we say.”  
“I wouldn’t have taken you for the dinner party type, to be fair.”  
Lucien chuckled. “I’ve attended multiple, but never hosted one. I feel as if the atmosphere of the fort would scare away any prospective visitors.”  
“It would give away the location of the famed Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood, as well.”  
“True, true.” the man responded, and walked over to a cabinet next to the fire.He rummaged around a moment, and then paused. “Do you want anything to drink?”  
“If you’re having a drink, I’ll partake. I don’t wish you to go through any trouble.”  
“Pouring a drink for someone is hardly trouble,” Lucien raised an eyebrow, and brought out two bottles of wine. With practiced finesse he uncorked one and poured two glasses full, passing one to Severyn. She accepted gratefully.  
“Is it not common for the superior to have their drink poured for them?” Severyn asked.  
“Perhaps in more formal situations,” Lucien replied, and sat next to Severyn with the glass of his own. “I would think of this as drinking with an associate.”  
“An associate?” Severyn was taken aback, flushing slightly. “That’s….I’m...as in, I’m not being treated as your junior?”  
Lucien took a long drink of his wine. “I have much to teach you, that is true. But you know a significant amount yourself. Think of me as guiding your hand, perhaps.”  
Severyn sipped at the wine herself. She couldn’t taste much of it-- she didn’t have most of her tongue, after all--but what she could taste was dry with hints of sweet fruit.  
“Thank you. For the wine. For all of this--letting me stay, and such.”  
The man next to her nodded. “You are a member of this Family, after all.”  
That’s true, Severyn thought, and a glowing warmth filled her chest--not only from the wine, but from belonging. “And it is an honor to be a part of it.”  
He chuckled, leaning back on the couch. “Correct. It is an honor of which few are worthy. I’ve met a significant amount of initiates who never made it this far.”  
“As far as drinking in the Speaker’s quarters? As far as personally training with the Speaker himself?”  
Lucien looked at her, warm brown eyes boring into her crimson ones, as if searching for something within them, but he glanced away not long after. He took another drink of his wine, and began refilling the glass. “Both, if you’re asking. What I meant to say, though, was as in the amount of contracts fulfilled, or acts committed, or the amount of dedication you possess. Not many have matched yours.”  
Severyn felt her face burn, and this time it was definitely not because of the alcohol.  
“Don’t say such things.” she mumbled.

  
Lucien shrugged minutely, but Severyn caught the wry grin from earlier on his face. “The initiates, though. Did anyone ever tell you about the tenet-breaker I dealt with? Gogron, perhaps?”  
“I’ve heard mention of a tenet-breaker from Gogron, and that you killed him, but no details further than that.” Her flustered embarrassment gave way to interest.  
“Well, you are in luck on this stormy afternoon, to hear me tell you.” Lucien said, steepling his fingers. A gleam rose in his eyes, mixed firelight and a remembrance of a well-told story. “The others have heard the story, but only Gogron was there for it, as you know.”  
“Gogron was there? He didn’t tell me that,” Severyn’s eyes widened in surprise.  
“Oh yes, the Orc witnessed every bit of it. But as I was the one who dispatched the man, perhaps my telling of the tale is more….grandiose, if not more accurate.”  
The Dunmer woman leaned forward, attentively. “Tell me, then. I’m eager to hear.”  
“As you wish.” Lucien took in a deep breath, pausing to collect his memories of the event.  
“It was perhaps six years ago--around that time, I’d assume--that the man came to our sanctuary. I hadn’t recruited him personally, I believe that honor went to one of the other members of our Family. As far as we knew, he was well prepared for the jobs requested of him. A bit of a chatterbox, truth be told, but nothing that seemed overly dangerous. He was a Breton, I think, and hailed from Chorrol.”  
“In what did he specialize?”  
“Destruction magic, mostly. I believe he was in fact recruited for setting his brother on fire. Mraaj-dar was eager to see another mage in our guild, but….” He trailed off, taking a long sip of his wine and sighing. “Well, it was a waste, to be fair. The whole situation was in shambles.”  
“What do you mean, it was a waste?”  
“The man was a good mage. It was a pity to lose his skills, but the fact he broke the tenets lent me some, shall we say, lenience to enjoy his situation.  
“I had approached him some time after his recruitment to give him a contract. It required both heavy melee as well as magical skill, so I enlisted Gogron gro-Bolmog to assist him. Gogron was his senior, specifically trained in the required weaponry. It took little thought to assign the two together.” Lucien gestured as he spoke, the carefully constructed demeanor he carried falling away in his animated speech.  
“I’m assuming something went horribly, horribly wrong,” Severyn murmured.  
“You’d be correct,” Lucien scoffed, took another sip of his wine and tucked a few stray hairs behind his ear.

“So, this man came to me in my quarters--I was staying in the sanctuary for a few days, with Vicente, actually. He came to my quarters at night, and sat down before me. This initiate, this absolute fool or a man, sat down and told me that ‘there was no way he could work with Gogron gro-Bolmog.’”

Severyn pursed her lips, confused. “What? Why not?”  
“Normally, I can take into account conflicts with fellow members when assigning groups. If initiates don’t work well together, or they have difficulties with one another, I will do my best to address the situation. If you and, say Telaendril, had issues with how you worked as a team, and you both brought this issue to me--as long as neither of you were rude or overtly disrespectful to one another, I would ensure that you could work out your differences at another point in time.”  
“And this wasn’t the case with this Breton, was it?”  
“I had assumed it would have been, in any other case. But no, this man came to me, and told me outright…” Lucien took a pause for emphasis, raising one hand. “He outright told me ‘Speaker, I don’t work with Orcs. They’re filthy, primitive creatures, and I won’t work with some brawling eye-toothed giant. Assign me to someone else.”  
Severyn covered her mouth in shock. “He said this? About Gogron?”  
The man nodded, mouth twisted into a grimace. “And of course, you know Gogron is one of the most gentle-minded assassins we have in the family. He’s told you the rabbit story. You’ve seen him with Antoinetta Marie, how he helps set up meals, all of that.”  
“Of course I have, Gogron’s a true Brother, he’s never said an ill word of anyone. Sithis take me, this fool of a man. But tell me, what did you do after?” Severyn was sitting absolutely rapt with concerned attention. She took another sip of her wine, and Lucien did the same. His face was tinged red around his cheekbones, but it could have easily been the firelight on his features.  
“I told him, ‘Of course, I’ll re-assign him straight away. We humans have to stick together.”  
“No! No, you can’t have done--” Severyn gawked at her speaker, in disgusted fury.  
“Wait, Ulasi. Listen, listen.” He put a hand on her shoulder, attempting to steady her, and leaned slightly closer. “I told him this, and then said he should meet me in the training room in an hour’s time so we could discuss some other possibilities. While he was doing that, I went to Gogron’s chambers, and told him of the grave error this man had made.  
Of course, Gogron was shocked, and I told him to meet me in the training room in an hour’s time. So he could witness the justice done to a tenet-breaker, specifically one who had insulted him.” Lucien took a swallow of his wine before continuing. “I sharpened a shortsword for the next hour, my Sister. Met them both in the training room after, as I said. The Breton’s face--it was white as snow, he must have thought I would make him duel Gogron.” A sharp but honest laugh erupted from the Speaker’s lips.

  
“Then, what I did--I started speaking about how the Breton was a tenet breaker, and that he must atone for the acts by apologizing to Gogron himself. Of course, the Breton didn’t at first. He was too proud, too arrogant--ill manners for an assassin, which I should have noticed earlier. But after I cut off a few of his fingers-- well, that made him apologize as if talking to the Divines themselves. When Gogron was satisfied, I split him sternum to gut with my sword. Told him that if he would spill such vile and base views towards a Brother he could spill the even baser parts of himself as well. Gogron let him twitch for a while before he cut off his head with an axe.”  
Severyn’s jaw dropped in stunned silence. “You….disemboweled and decapitated him?”  
“He insulted a Brother, broke a tenet. I did what I had to do, but Void take me if I didn’t enjoy it a little.”  
“I would expect no less from you,” Severyn ran a hand through her hair, and sighed heavily. “Pardon my saying, but you tend to err on the side of dramatic.”  
Lucien furrowed his brow, and gestured for an explanation with the hand holding the wine-glass. The crimson liquid bobbed and ebbed within like a miniature sea.  
“All the entering into rooms in the dead of night, you stole my poisons and made me improvise a way to kill a man, you made me think you lived in a desolate room without furniture--”  
“I didn’t make you think that,” Lucien interjected. “And I wanted to test your skills as an assassin.”  
“I won’t fault you for it, of course. I understand your reasoning perfectly!” Severyn quickly added.

“I should hope not, else you’d be the Speaker and not I,” the man retorted. “Dramatic. Quite a word for an assassin. Should I hire a chorus to follow me around to detail my every move? A theatre troupe?”  
Severyn snorted with laughter, and though her companion’s face was stern, she caught a glimpse of mirth in his eyes. “You’re not doing yourself any favors, my Speaker. This proves my point.”  
“Then we shall leave it at a standstill. Or, I could point out your flaws instead.”  
“Isn’t that what training is about? You, correcting my posture, and I the loyal and dedicated student, attending to your requests?”  
It was Lucien’s turn to laugh, and he did so openly. “Those aren’t flaws, Ulasi, but points of learning. I would have thought you knew that after, what, fourteen years of training before now.”  
“It was a joke,” she said, attempting to defend herself half-heartedly. “If you really wish to point out how flawed I am, you have every right to, I suppose. You are my Speaker, after all, and it’s my duty as an assassin to correct my behavior.”  
“I didn’t think of something as serious as that,” Lucien said, and fixed Severyn with an inscrutable gaze.

She felt something on the back of her neck, and was about to turn and remove it, thinking it a stray piece of hair. Before she could, whatever it was moved, brushing her shoulder, and Severyn jumped, startled. She realised, though, with a jolt--it was a hand, Lucien’s arm draped around the back of the couch, around her shoulder.  
“For such a well-trained assassin,” he murmured, and she could feel his wine-tinged breath barely on her neck as he leaned closer. “You can be quite oblivious.”  
Severyn’s face felt as if it had been set aflame. “How long has your arm been there?”  
“Long enough,” Lucien responded, amused. “You really didn’t notice?”  
“No, I--why did you do--?” His arm pressed more noticeably around her neck, as if mocking her prior ignorance. One finger traced a meaningless pattern over her shoulder, and if he hadn’t noticed the heat exuding from her face before, he must have now, with how close he was to her.  
“I wanted to,” the man said, voice ever so slightly slurred. The wine he had been steadily drinking throughout their chat had apparently taken a toll. “Is that a problem?”  
“I….I didn’t say it was,” she faltered.  
“Good, then.”  
Ever so slightly, she leaned against Lucien’s arm, earning an almost inaudible hum of approval from the man. His fingers ran gently over the junction of her neck and shoulder, continuing the same nonsensical pattern as before. He drew her nearer—if she hadn’t been so keenly aware of every movement he made, every part of her own self, she wouldn’t have noticed it.

It was strangely peaceful, Severyn realized, sitting here with Lucien. Perhaps the wine had dulled her ever-present anxieties of being near her Speaker, of fulfilling his expectations and the expectations of the Sanctuary. In this moment, with the crackling furnace, and the steady rain on the high ceilings of the fort, she could not think of anything that could have been expected of her. It felt so long since she had just been still, longer still since someone had deigned to touch her kindly.

Severyn moved closer to the man, basking in the heavy warmth across her shoulders as if it were sunlight. He smelled vaguely of pipe-smoke, now that she thought about it, of allspice and of blade-steel, freshly whetted. Sharp, but warm, familiar; a resolving discordant note.  
His fingers brushed only slightly against the bare skin of her neck, circling and retreating in their movements, but it was enough to feel the faint callusing there. Lucien’s hand then wandered in the spidersilk-soft of her hair, stroking through her locks, and it lulled Severyn further--her eyes half-closed, reveling in the company and his surprisingly gentle ministrations.

His hand rested before long at the base of her skull, tangled in the silver hair--his fingers had stopped, suddenly frozen in their place. Severyn aimed to face him, the movement dislodging his hand and causing it to trace slowly down her neck. Her brows furrowed in confusion as she looked him in the eyes. Something odd was there, smoldering, in his gaze-- like the wood of the furnace slowly burning away into dark smoke, a thought half-formed. Severyn met his penetrating look with her own uncertainty, raised a hand to his shoulder in a near-attempt to wake him from his reverie.  
“Lucien,” she began, voice nearly hidden by the steady hiss of rain, but stopped. She didn’t ask him what he was thinking about. If she had any idea of the man, he would keep his thoughts impenetrable.  
He moved glacially slow, towards her as if drawn there by some unseen force. But then Lucien was there, mere inches away from her face, inscrutable as ever. She could see the tiniest smattering of freckles across his nose, the thin lines that creased his forehead and under his dark eyes--no longer icy voids but the dark color of ancient wood. Severyn brushed away a few wisps of silver at his temples, traced the line of Lucien’s jaw. He was no shadow, no shade of death like this, she thought distantly. How she had thought him a demon, a ghost, Sithis himself incarnate, she would never know. No, he was a harbinger of death but human, but full of the tiniest, lovely imperfections no cold spirit of the beyond could possess.  
Severyn could feel the warmth of his even breath mingling with hers, lips poised just above--hers parted, trembling, and his as still as the stone of the fort walls. An eternity could have passed in that moment, she felt, even if it had only been seconds.  
But before she knew it, he had moved away from her. His eyes had changed, had hardened slightly--within them there were hints of the black stone she first saw during her recruitment. It wasn’t that he had suddenly sobered; the faint tinge of red still lingered on his cheeks from the wine. Something else.

“No,” he murmured, voice rough as if caught in his throat. He looked at her again, like her face held the answer to a long unsolved question.  
Severyn bowed her head, attempting to hide her chagrin by averting her gaze. Blood rushed to her ears and face, and she felt her stomach drop.  
“Should I….leave, Speaker?”  
“Please do so.” he replied, quickly, through clenched teeth. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the faintest flicker of conflict on his face when she stood from the couch. As if he would have reached for her if this situation was different.  
“I’m sorry if I have caused you any offense, my Speaker, it wasn’t my intention to overstep--”  
“No,” Lucien said again, but his speech lacked any of the icy ire that Severyn had expected. “You have not offended me. Please, just leave.” he bit out.

She looked backward only once at him as she left his room, face burning in humiliation. What had happened in that fraction of a second, in that moment just before their lips would have touched? Had she done something wrong? Severyn ran a shaky hand over her scarred mouth, anxiously. He was standing behind her at the couch, stone-faced, watching her go.

Lucien heard the doors of the fort close behind her a few moments later. The rainfall had slowed into a drizzle, pattering gently on the window panes. The storm had calmed enough for her to find her way safely to the sanctuary, he assumed.

Had she not left, she would have seen Lucien gripping the stem of a wine goblet, white-knuckled. She would have seen him down a glass of the dark liquid upon her exit, would have seen him sigh heavily as if the burdens of the world had once again lowered themselves on the Speaker’s shoulders.

Lucien pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until stars burst into blooming fire behind them. He exited the the room just as the furnace sputtered out, leaving the living room with curling woodsmoke and the memory of intimacy in his wake.


	15. Foul Mood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been super busy and I apologize. I'm currently in Japan and will be there until August, then I come back to the states for 2 weeks, then right back to Japan for the foreseeable future. Research/schoolwork have taken up most of my time, plus an undergrad thesis. But I'll continue this fic until it's done! This chapter is a little short, but it heralds more. :) Sorry for the wait again!

Severyn woke in the sanctuary, to dark shadows crossing the ceiling and darker guilt souring the pit of her stomach. She had been lying on a chaise in one of the few common areas the underground compound possessed--this one was the more comfortable, furnished with a few couches, small bookshelves detailing the exploits of past and famous assassins. She had picked a couple of the worn books from the dark-wood containers, intending to pass her time as she usually did, but sleep overtook her before she could have any say in the matter. It was dim--evening was encroaching over Cheydinhal, her internal clock chimed--but as there was no natural light within the sanctuary, one could say it was always this dark. Evening, morning, the black of night; all time blended together into a shadowy soup-- even on a good day. On one such as this, slept away in the hopes to dispel her ill humor, it was blacker, even thicker, like ichor.

She rubbed her eyes as she rose from the sofa, the crimson upholstery worn and bunched over the years of use. As soon as her eyes reopened, however, the memories were back. Two days since the storm that had left the town murky with puddles of brackish water, two days since her emotions were made into much of the same.

 _What happened that night?_ The question threw itself against the walls of her skull, repeating and ringing like a headache. Lucien had been so close to her, and then pushed her away like she had never mattered. One moment he was drinking wine with her, laughing and telling stories and then he had led her out into the rain. Had his eyes been cold? Filled with regret? She couldn’t recall-- it seemed only the bitter mood he had instilled had stayed with her, the longing and guilt forming a cold weight in her stomach.

Moving like a creature incapable of sentient thought, she shuffled down an adjacent hall in the Sanctuary to the kitchen--thinking maybe a cup of herbal tea would ease her dark mood. The candle sconces that lit the dark stone walls flickered mockingly at the corners of her gaze as she trudged along. When she arrived at the cooking area, it was graciously empty save for a few soot-scorched kettles and pots. Severyn exhaled a heavy breath she didn’t know she was holding.

 _Sithis take me if Antoinetta or Gogron had been here, I’m in no mood for their shenanigans._ With an aggravated flick of her wrist, Severyn lit a small wood stove, and shoved a few bundles of St. John’s Wort and ginseng into one of the cleaner kettles filled with water. Both plants were said to assist with ill tempers, and she had relied on their effects before when her stepfather had given her trouble.

_Mother had shown me how one night, hunched over our stove and a pot of rolling water beneath, with fragrant steam billowing around her face like a magician._

_“Sev, dear one. Take this to ease your worries,” she would say, and add a pinch of sugar for my childish tongue. Sometimes she’d sneak a candied fruit in my palm along with the tea cup, and I’d walk back to my studies, feet quiet like a cat to not wake my step father--_

The sharp whistle of the boiling mixture brought her swiftly out of her memory and back to the present. Pouring herself a tall cup, she added a small pinch of sugar to it, and sipped it slowly.

The ill humor stayed with her, but lessened as she drank. Perhaps it was the mere act of drinking a cup of tea or remembering a kind moment that gave her a small reprieve from her moodiness. Brewing potions had the same sort of effect on her--what with the meditativeness of adding herbs, of careful calculations and eventual success.

But soon the tea was gone, and again, Severyn was alone in the dim kitchen with her thoughts.

 

*

 

She had made her way back to the main part of the sanctum, still locked in her own pensiveness when Vicente crossed her path. He would have been otherwise invisible if the corridor had not been lit. The lamplight made him look even more thin and weary than he usually did, hitting his face in acute, strange angles. He stood in front of Severyn, and the slightly reproving look on his face reminded her of a dissatisfied parent.

“Vicente,” Severyn began, attempting to keep guilt from leaking in to her words. Her dourness had affected her work, despite her efforts to prevent it from doing so. “I haven’t...seen you in the sanctuary as of late. Are you well?” She had been purposefully avoiding his wrath--or what she assumed would be his wrath, as she had not angered him before.

“I could ask the same of you,  Sister Severyn.” The side of Vicente’s thin mouth quirked downwards. “You have not been on contracts for the past few days. I was beginning to worry about your wellbeing.”

“I’m...not ill,” the dunmer woman hedged. “I’m just...not feeling the best. I have many things on my mind.”

“Have you notified the Speaker of your difficulties? Perhaps he can advise you in finding a solution.”

This time, Severyn couldn’t stop a small grimace from slipping across her face.

“I...would not care to trouble him with such trifling matters.”

“Can it be truly called trifling if it affects your work, Sister?” Again, the disappointed parent look wrinkled the vampire’s brow.

“I….Vicente….” Severyn heaved out a sigh and ran a hand through her silver hair, eyes downcast. She _could_ talk to Vicente about it, she knew that he would be willing to listen. He  had proven to be a confidante, a willful ear. But her problems involved the Speaker, of all people, and Vicente knew Lucien better than anyone. It would be a big risk to ask him about such private matters. All the same, there was the possibility that he knew what was going on--maybe it had even happened before, with some other person….?

 

But right now, it all seemed like too much to bear. Letting Vicente in on this situation was too big a decision to make right now, as her head thrummed with the remnants of her foul mood. If there was anything she needed, it was to get her mind off of this whole mess. She needed a contract--small, large, important or less so. Anything to bring back her focus from the mires of overthinking.

“...No, you’re right. I apologize for letting my emotions run amok. I’ll start working again from now.”

Vicente nodded slowly,  accepting her apology. He placed an icy hand on her shoulder, and Severyn restrained herself from flinching.

“We are all victim to our ill tempers and our ill thoughts at some time or another. But the thing that separates the successful from the common is their ability to overcome their despair in a timely manner.” His words sounded thoughtful but at the same time, almost rehearsed. He had likely given that sort of speech to many initiates over the course of working at the sanctuary. Severyn only nodded in response, listening. Vicente’s gaze moved over to hers as he spoke again.

“Is there anything I personally can do to assist you? A group of contracts have just come in from the city. If you’re not at peak ability at this time, I don’t want you working far from the sanctuary.” His face was less disappointed and more concerned, now, not out of pity but out of genuine care.

“That would be wonderful, Vicente. Just what the doctor ordered.” A small smile broke onto Severyn’s face. Vicente withdrew a sealed roll of parchment out of his robe folds and pressed it into her open palm, then gently patted it shut.

“If you require anything of me, you know where my room is. In order for this sanctuary to flourish, I must assist my brethren.”

With that, Vicente bowed slightly, sinking into the shadows of the corridor, and soon, it was if he had never been there.  

*

When Severyn left the sanctuary, it was later at night--she had taken time to focus her thoughts on the contract rather than her personal problems, burned a bouquet of deathbell at the marker of the Night Mother in the hopes of guidance. The telltale rush of appreciative warmth came from her guardian as soon as she gave the offering, quieting her worries. Evening had come and gone, and as Severyn stepped out into the darkness, she was absorbed by it, cloaked in it.

She inhaled a deep breath of chilled night air, of wet grass from an afternoon rain, of wood smoke half dispersed. The cobbled road before her was empty and clear, thank Sithis, and she had a gut feeling that this contract would be well worth performing.

Severyn ran a gloved hand over the parchment folded carefully in her pocket. It read the following.

 

_Contract for Charyvon Baarsen, Redguard Male, late 40s._

_Local shopkeep attests that he has seduced his younger daughter, wants him killed. Disposal unnecessary._

_Further requests/preferences: Quick, no fuss. Wants it over and done with. Accidental death is acceptable._

It seemed easy enough, to be fair. Making things look like accidents wasn’t necessarily her forte, but Severyn could mix something into his alcohol to make the effects of it significantly amplified. Drinking oneself to death wasn’t exactly unheard of as a way to go, and if this target was the playboy he seemed, it was likely that he partook in drink a lot. What other way to meet impressionable young ladies than in taverns?

She snickered to herself. If Cheydinhal’s masses knew she was about, they would take far better care to watch their drinks. She swept her way down the dark road past the sanctuary, into the nightshade patch near the graveyards, past the bridge like an errant shadow.

 

Severyn had no possible way to know how committing this mere contract would change everything.


	16. Lapse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, smut ahead. TW: for self harm.
> 
> This one was a doozy to write but I've had it planned for almost as long as the fic itself. Certain people who will read this fic *wink wink, my discord friends* will understand. I left something in there for y'all.

The rain had slowed after that fateful night, from flooding the streets to a mere pattering on the glass and stone of Fort Farragut. The sound of it on his windows distracted him—angered him, when it normally would have put him at ease. Lucien pressed his fingers to his temples as he leaned back in his old wooden chair, his desk cluttered with unfinished parchments. A small oil lamp sputtered weakly, running low on fuel. It was past midnight, and he had little to show for his hours of work. Little but an empty cup of wine on his table that had been filled and refilled until the dark red of it had seeped into the wood. Little but ink splotches on his hands from writing mistakes, correcting them, realizing there had been nothing wrong to begin with. Tonight, Lucien was filled with a sense of relentless and absolute malaise.

 

_ It’s unlike you to be so brooding _ , a voice from inside his brain chided.  _ So unfocused. _

“Shut up,” he muttered.

_You say that as if this isn’t_   _your fault,_ the voice shot back.

 

All of this, these past few days, had been for naught. Useless. Every time he realized it, his blood steamed and his ears rang with irritation. With a jerk of his hand he swept a pile of contracts off his desk and onto the stone floor where they rustled, then stilled. His work had been slow, his mind distracted--everything was just off, somehow. And even if he did not want to admit the cause, he knew it as well as his own name and rank.

 

Those few days prior, when Severyn Ulasi had been so close to him, when they had shared stories. When he had rushed her out of his home like a common wench instead of an equal--

Lucien’s brow furrowed and he ran a tense hand through his hair, loosening a few strands from his ponytail. What he had done was  _necessary_.

_ But it wasn’t right,  _ the voice retorted _. And you know it. _

 

He prided himself on making decisions for the good of the Sanctuary and for the good of the Dark Brotherhood in general. As a Speaker—the Speaker of Cheydinhal’s Sanctuary—it was practically in his job description. Lucien needed to make knife-quick decisions to cut off rotting parts of the group, to refuse contracts that would cast the Brotherhood in an ill light, to kill and maim. Emotions never factored into these decisions. He did as Sithis willed, as the Night Mother willed and as he felt was befitting. It was clear - cut and rule-mandated. Killing was a business, after all.

It seemed now, if he entered into a sphere where business and non-business intersected, a place where he could sit in the midst of a smoke-filled room with one of the Sanctuary’s brightest stars, a place where he could run a hand through her moonlit hair and smell wine on her breath--it set him awry in a way he hadn’t been in years, since he was a fresh-faced boy, less man than he was now. Even thinking of such prior weakness set a headache stabbing at the insides of his skull. He had had affections in his youth, but had pushed them to the wayside in favor of other, more... interesting activities. In essence, they were not worthy of pursuing, and mostly wantings of the flesh.

And to be fair, it wasn’t as if he was some fumbling virgin who hadn’t been with women before. Sithis knows he had been involved with several, and with men the same way. But never as an equal-- always a means to an end. Lucien had bedded so many on contracts throughout his years, snaking into a target’s bed with nothing but a sly look and a whisper. Some had survived the encounter. Most hadn’t, for the sake of his anonymity.

But she--Severyn--was different, somehow. It wasn’t as if she was the most beautiful person in Tamriel, or even Cheydinhal, for those scars on her lips made sure of that. (Perhaps it was ill-minded of him to think that, but it was true.)

It wasn’t even that she had some sort of charmed air about her, some seductive magnetism that drew men to her. Perhaps, even, it was only he who felt that draw to her. (Even admitting this made his stomach turn in strange ways, sent heat to strange places.)

Was it her skill? Her eagerness to prove her worth? Her devotion to the Dread Father and his unholy wife? He was impressed by her willpower and her prior contracts, of course ;  who wouldn't be? But he had been impressed by his fellow assassins before, by the other members of the Sanctuary, even--none of it had ever ended like  _ this _ .

He had wanted to kiss her, on that stormy evening, and it was the realization of that fact that made him turn her away. Lucien had  _ wanted _  that, not for the sake of a contract or a hurried lay, but for the sake of knowing her intimately. Want for the sake of want was dangerous in this line of work. Death was a common occurrence, and attachments to the Family could disrupt its carefully kept balance. Common relationships between associates were all well and good; coworkers you could distance yourself from with no more than a few days of silence. But lovers? Proteges? Lovers mixed with proteges? Inextricable. It had happened to other Speakers and their underlings, and he had never expected to be one of them.

It had taken days of unproductive work, of headaches and shame, but Lucien could admit it now. There was no other choice; face weeks more of a muddled mind, of sleepless nights and regret upon his actions, or admit that he wanted Severyn Ulasi. For the good of the Brotherhood and his future work, he hedged, it was worth it to admit such a thing.

Lucien could deny such things all he wanted, but it wouldn’t stop them from being true. He would want her all the same if he denied it, maybe more--her delicate fingers under his grasp, her scarred lips gasping his name, silver skin slicked with sweat--

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, his fingertips into his forehead. He couldn’t work like this, like some hormone-addled youth in the throes of fantasy. The stars that burst into unnameable colors behind his vision distracted him from those thoughts but for two moments, and then they were the bleeding crimson of her eyes, the white of her hair--

 

Lucien stood up from his desk with some effort, walking to the window, where the cool hissing rain made no dent in his heated blood--warm and shameful in his veins, thrumming, pounding--

He drove his ungloved fist into the stone wall beside it, scraping skin and muscle, hoping for some relief to the errant thoughts, crowding his brain, making him inefficient.

He did it again, again, until a thin layer of blood pooled over his knuckles, down his wrist, dripping to the dark and dusty floor. Only then, when his hand protested in its soreness, and the stone was covered in spots of red, did he stop.

It wasn’t enough, and it wouldn’t ever be, but he had to try. There was work to be done, contracts to be performed, records to be written, and all he wanted was relief from this spiral of distraction.

He cast a listless gaze to his bleeding hand, red and irritated, splinters of rock dust embedded in his skin. He felt a desperate twitch in his gut, and then lower, and he knew that pain would do nothing to curb his strange humor.

 

How long had it been? Months? Years?

 

Lucien hadn’t taken anyone to bed for an extremely long time. He could bed practically anyone, if he was being honest, but in becoming Speaker his time had been reserved for Brotherhood meetings, for contract recording. No time to take care of basic and rudimentary desires, much less those of the flesh--if he indulged at all, self-fulfillment would suffice. He hadn’t felt the need until now, and his brain was suddenly muggy with repression, feelings brought back to the surface by his fellow assassin.

What he  _ wanted _  was to be selfish, to lose himself for a short while in the pleasures of the body, to forget the mounting stress and strange mood he was in. But being selfish meant using the thought of his associate as mere fodder, giving her none of the respect that she was due. And even if he did use the idea of her as a means to bring him pleasure, who could say that this feeling would subside? If it were some stranger on the street, it would be different-- if it were someone who he would never see again, someone unremarkable to file away in the back of his brain, but her-- Severyn--

Lucien knew he would see her again, once this would be all over, and she would apologize to him for her perceived wrongdoing--her, apologizing for something he did-- and he would still have the image of her in his mind submitting to his whims. He would meet her for training practice, and she would corner him as she often did, knife in hand--he would not think of anything but cornering her instead, turning her gasp of surprise into other, less innocent noises.

 

No matter which way he considered his situation, it wouldn’t end cleanly unless he cut her off completely--and that was what got him into this mess, pushing her away when she was so close to kissing him.

No, there was only way out, and it was through. He had to confront this, confront himself, and later, when his blood had cooled significantly, confront her.

Perhaps, if he just got this whole thing over with—just something to ease the growing tension in his body—something to clear his mind…

Lucien sighed heavily, resigned, as he wiped the blood off the wall with a spare cloth. He stuffed the rag in his pocket, blew the sputtering oil lamp out, and began a slow, uncomfortable walk to his bedroom.

 

-

 

His room was much like the living space into which he had invited Severyn: not overly lush, but comfortable enough.

It was large enough for a bed and desk, as well as a wardrobe and a seating set carved out of dark oak. Perhaps other Speakers had given themselves leave to decorate their rooms lavishly, but Lucien could not care less about such matters. There were only a few personal assets to his room—a small bookcase, an oil lantern. Most of the important things were hidden from sight, but the room gave off a lived-in atmosphere.

The black Speaker's robe he often wore adorned a nearby wooden chair .  He hadn't bothered to uniform himself today--no official work was to be done outside Fort Farragut's walls, and he figured it would be a waste to do paperwork in his formal robes. Thus, he was left clad in a linen shirt and dark breeches, black hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck.

A few drops of blood welled from his scraped knuckles and dripped onto his desk as he searched his room for a cloth bandage and a vial of clear alcohol.. Lucien found the items in a far corner of his oak drawers, and set about fixing the cuts on his fingers. His brows furrowed at the burning pain that the alcohol instilled in his wounds, but soon enough his hand was wrapped effortlessly in white cloth.

As much as he had hoped taking care of his injury would distract him from the arousal brewing in the pit of his stomach, it did not--or at least, for not long enough. Like a hydra, the heads of thoughts he had cut off sprang back. A disgruntled huff loosed itself from his chest.

 

Lucien situated himself on his bed, on top of the gray blankets that matched the stone of the walls around him. It had been long enough that he had forgotten how to start--so much of his time had been consumed by the Brotherhood's activities.

Slowly, he unbuttoned a few clasps on his shirt, then a few more, letting it slip open as he ran a languid hand down his chest. He traced his fingers absently over a few long-healed scars on his ribcage, stomach--some injuries from his youth in Skyrim, others from messily executed contracts in his young adulthood. Lucien had learned so much more in the years since those wounds had been inflicted on him, and he would have been swallowed in self-importance had a steady, distracting heat not been rising inside him.

He figured her hands, had they been on him in this moment, would have taken a more tentative path. So eager to learn and yet, hesitant to act. Lucien recalled her with the Orcish sword, how intensely she tried to study it, how amused he had been as she cursed it for her own inadequacy. His thoughts moved to when he had corrected her posture, when she had tried to hide her surprise at his touch. It had been an innocent enough movement then, fixing her gait and grip on the sword, but now...

_ No _ , he reminded himself, distantly.  _ Don't think of that now. Don't think of her, don't use her like that. _

 

Lucien loosened the loop of knotted string that tied his breeches, pushing them down slightly, enough to reach his underclothes--the heat in the pit of his stomach jumped and fluttered like a wild flame at the motion.

_ Just get it over with, _  part of him whispered, but the rest of him said  _ take your time, be selfish, it's been so long. _  
  


Lucien focused his thoughts overhead at the high stone ceilings, moving his hands downward with enough purpose to soothe his agitation. He was already half hard, and he cursed himself-- _ pathetic, to be so affected by wanton thoughts _ .

His hands smoothed lower over his hip-bones to cup himself over the fabric of his smalls. Exhaling softly through his nose, he let his fingers travel further down, below the dark cloth of his waistband, where the fire growing in his stomach flared at the meet of flesh. It had been terribly, awfully long. The hesitance he felt on beginning began to fade, replaced by the insistence of arousal-- he moved his hand over himself, slowly at first, eyes closing.

There were images, faceless bodies, bodiless faces flitting behind his eyelids like moth-wings, his subconscious desperately searching for something to project onto, something that wasn't the stern, scarred face of his associate. Each being reformed themselves when he tried to focus, grew long silvery hair and burning crimson eyes. Each fantasy sputtered and died like a candle in a storm.

Closing his eyes wasn't working. He opened them to stare at the stone ceiling, but found it as unworthy of his gaze as the back of his eyelids.

His hand moved faster, and as it did, his thoughts muddled with pure human carnality.

All pretense was gone at this point. He wasn't going to last long, not after such a period of celibacy. The more he pushed her face out of his thoughts, the more she returned. Lucien couldn't escape her.

_ Just once, let me be selfish _ , he half-reasoned with himself through the haze.

At once, Lucien's vision was flooded with visions he had kept locked in the deeper parts of his brain, untapped wells of memories he had not been aware he kept. Blood pulsed in his ears, sparks of fire lit in his gut as if he had swallowed gunpowder.

 

_ Severyn's face, cast in shadow and hair mussed from sleep when he had first visited her in the West Weald Inn, then in Bravil with her robes cast on the floor, when he had locked his eyes on hers instead of letting them travel to her almost bare form-- _

_ Her elegant fingers that had mirrored her scars on his face, tracing over his jaw and throat-- _

_ When she had trapped him on the floor of the training room, crimson eyes blazing in indignation when she pressed a blade to his throat, her nails digging into his wrist-- _

_ The night he had sent Severyn away, when she had looked at him like some sort of divine creature, her lips so close to his-- _

Then, suddenly, things that hadn't happened, things that could happen if he let them, if she wanted them, because he wanted them so desperately all of a sudden, and maybe had never wanted anything more--

 

_ She was there in his bed then, her delicate hand over his. Severyn urged him onwards, guided his grip with gentle, heady pressure. He felt her lips poised over the shell of his ear, breathlessly whispering how much she admired him, how much she had learned from him, how terribly she had wanted him to ravish her in the halls of the Sanctuary-- _

_ How she wanted to scream his name till the very Void trembled with the echoes-- _

With a sharp shout and an erratic jerk of his hips, he spilled himself over his hand. A few moments, and his vision cleared, the white-hot fervor of orgasm fading into a hazy aftermath.

Lucien drew the rag from his pocket--the one he had used to clean the blood off the stone earlier-- and wiped away the remnants of his lapse into hedonism before he could chastise himself for it.

_ There will be other times for self-aggrandizement, _  he thought-- it was the last clear thing that entered his brain, for he slipped into sleep not long after.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic about my Silencer of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, Severyn Ulasi. This is my first posted fanfiction ever, so I'm excited to go on this writing journey. I've been writing for years and years but never posted anything anywhere!  
> I'm in the market for a beta, so if anyone wants to give that a go, just hit me up!! Thanks!
> 
> There will be drabbles posted in the future about Severyn and her life pretty soon, so keep watch!
> 
> As with all works, comments, kudos and other words of relative decency are greatly appreciated. 
> 
> TESIV Oblivion and all of its respective characters are owned by Bethesda. I do not lay claim to them whatsoever.


End file.
